


i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back)

by softirwin



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band), Blur (Band), Oasis (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Britpop, Drug Use, Exes, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, a lot of the above, and when i say a lot. if you know anything about britpop you'll know i mean A LOT, i'm sure i'll think of more tags as i go along but my brain? empty, oh i should probably add lots of swearing including the c word because: british, romeo/juliet dynamics, this is rated mature for the drug use not for smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:59:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 103,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softirwin/pseuds/softirwin
Summary: “Fucking shite,” Liam says, over the sound of the crowd’s growing murmurs. “Would’ve rather watched City fucking lose.” They all know he’s lying. Liam’d probably rather cut off his limbs one at a time than sit at home to watch City get thrashed.It reminds Calum where he is, though, as he takes a sip of his beer with slightly shaky hands. He’s in fucking Manchester, in a dingy bar with two of the biggest pricks he’s ever met in his life, watching shitty bands play mediocre songs to avoid having to watch his football team get massacred by Everton. It grounds him, shakes him out of it, makes him remember that he’s here, in England, not in Sydney, and he’s twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now.But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn he’d seen Michael Clifford.-or: calum's in oasis and michael's in blur and it's the height of the 1990s britpop war
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood, Noel Gallagher/Calum Hood (background), god thats literally sent me somewhere, i cannot believe i'm about to type this one out:
Comments: 106
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well...here it is. my magnum opus. kidding this is literally the most insanely self-indulgent fic i've ever written i can't even begin to tell you how ridiculous it feels but you know what? i was going to follow that up with a snappy one-liner but i have nothing i literally have nothing please read my insane nonsense 
> 
> i know what you're thinking: helen's starting another chaptered fic? oh i can't be having this. i can't be having ANOTHER unfinished wip...what is she thinking the absolute madwoman...but fear not. i actually have 50k of this pre-written and it's still going i'm DETERMINED to finish this fucking fic i was going to hold off posting until i finished but that was when i thought it was going to be 30k not 80k but that leaves me with more than enough to give you a chapter a week we'll be alright 
> 
> i have an insane list of thank-yous to give so i should probably do that before i start waxing lyrical about whatever nonsense my brain is cooking up right now. first and foremost i have to give the biggest thank you to sam firstly for just being such a joy and a wonderful friend during lockdown and for reading this entire thing and for listening to me rant about it day in day out and for coming up with brilliant ideas and reassuring me about the characters and basically the entire thing i (and this fic) owe you my LIFE also a cheeky little plug in case you didn't know about sam's [BRILLIANT fic](http://tirednotflirting.tumblr.com/writing) everybody should be reading it. i can't even tell you how weirdly comforting it is to see you on the google doc just hanging out while i'm writing FINISHH every two sentences my mind works in mysterious ways. on that note a big thank you to annaliese for reading a good fuckin chunk of this and not hating it and for being so sweet about it thank you so much for putting yourself through that a true icon. also thank u to lou for cheering this fic on every step of the way and coming up with excellent ideas literally this fic would be absolutely nowhere if it werent for your encouragement and our shared love of britpop. thank you also to ainslee (and bella) for listening to me rant about this fic when they have literally no interest in britpop and especially bella for the struggle it is to listen when this fic is the amalgamation of ur worst nightmares even though u did bitch about it a lot i still love and appreciate u very much. also big thank u to meg for letting me thirst over noel gallagher with only minimal mockery and for also listening to me talk about this fic as it progressed from 15k to 50k. i know i must have left out somebody because my brain is working at about 3% capacity but the excellent thing about a/ns is they can be EDITED love it on that note i might edit the title i've got a big list of like 15 titles that i've been toying between so if this fic title randomly changes pretend you didn't notice 
> 
> what have i been up to lately...i got my degree results back and i'm super happy with them! i'm back at uni rn with my housemates isolating together for a few weeks before moving all my stuff back home. i'm going on a 6 hour walk with one of my professors tomorrow wish me luck. not much else to update you on really but tell me what's been going on for you i hope you're all keeping safe and healthy in lockdown. ON THAT NOTE...we're finally done with the a/ns and onto the nonsense that is to follow 
> 
> oh no we're not i forgot my PLUG: follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) :) also quick terminology that anyone not from manchester probably doesn't know: our kid means sibling. apparently. i'm not from manchester i don't get it either but they're always saying it in interviews and my mancunian friend concurred ALSO disclaimer i'm very liberal with the canon here but most of this is true events just some in different time order

Liam had once asked Calum if he believed in fate. 

“D’you think it’s all real?” he’d said one day, out of the fucking blue. Calum, though, used to Liam beginning conversations in the middle after two long years of knowing him, had just looked at him. 

“Do I think what’s all real?” he’d asked. Liam had indicated up at the sky with his eyes and cigarette. 

“Fate, and all that,” he’d said, lifting the cigarette back to his lips. Calum had watched as his cheeks hollowed around it, turning potential answers over and over in his mind. 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he’d said eventually, and Liam had raised his eyebrows and nodded as he’d exhaled a cloud of grey smoke that had blended in with the sky and the council houses. 

Calum thinks he probably should have known then. Maybe Liam had been trying to make a point, in that strange way he sometimes does - _what are the odds you’d end up here, with us?_ Calum hadn’t given it a second thought at the time, just rolled his eyes and nudged Liam’s foot with his own and said _Noel’s going to do his fucking nut if we’re not there in ten,_ and that had been that. The conversation never even crossed his mind again until it was too late, until fate had already had her way with Calum. 

In Calum’s defence, though, fate never showed her hand. She never threw him any hints, no flashing neon signs that said _Calum, your destiny is this way_. Fate came piecemeal, came in short snippets of conversations or flashes of familiar faces or, on occasion, Liam and Noel swearing loudly at each other as they stomp up the stairs in Calum’s house.

“I’m arsed,” Liam’s saying loudly, when he barges into Calum’s room. Noel’s hot on his heels, midway through a spiel he’s clearly prepared which Liam’s having none of, and he turns to Calum when they get through the door, an annoyed expression on his face. 

“Tell him he’s a prick,” he says. 

“Why?” Calum says, setting his magazine aside, because he needs to know what he’s supposed to be endorsing before he picks a side in an argument between the Gallagher brothers. 

“Our kid wants us to miss the match tonight and go to some fucking gig,” Liam grumbles, throwing himself down on Calum’s bed and picking up his magazine. 

“It’s not ‘some fucking gig’, Liam,” Noel says irritably. “It’s the fucking Boardwalk. We’ve got to hear what else is out there right now.” 

“I told you, I’m fucking arsed what else is out there right now,” Liam says, flicking about five pages on from the article Calum had been in the middle of reading. “I don’t write the fucking songs, do I? Go on your fucking own. You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Noel rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, and Calum’s _Gallagher Explosion Incoming_ senses start tingling, followed swiftly by his _Peacekeeping Skill Set_ activating. 

“Look,” he says hurriedly, before Noel can say something that’ll lead to a couple of black eyes, mostly because neither of the brothers have ever cared much about collateral damage and Calum values his bruiseless skin. “What if we start the match, and if City look like they’re going to lose, we go to the gig?” Noel closes his mouth, and then opens it again, and then closes it again. 

“Fucking whatever,” Liam grumbles, which is the closest they’re going to get to acquiescence from him. Calum stares at Noel beseechingly, because this is the best idea he’s got and pretty much the only one he thinks Liam’ll agree to, and Noel rolls his eyes, sighs dramatically, but then nods reluctantly. 

“City won’t fucking lose,” he mutters, as he sits down in the chair at Calum’s desk. “Not to a bunch of Scousers.” 

“Lost to Liverpool not four weeks ago,” Calum reminds him, and Noel scowls. 

“That second goal was fucking offside,” he says. 

“Ref was a fucking wanker,” Liam chimes in, from where he’s lying on Calum’s bed, still thumbing through the magazine. “‘Ere, what’s this, then?” he adds, with a grin, and turns the magazine around, tapping on the page. It’s a picture of a (very pretty) boy spread across a motorbike, and Calum rolls his eyes, snatching the magazine out of Liam’s hands. 

“Fuck off,” he says, but Liam’s just laughing, head tipped back on the bed, all full lips and bright blue eyes and long, dark lashes. If Calum hadn’t been doing lines with Liam for half of last night, he could almost believe the angelic innocence the boy gives off. 

“Looks like our kid,” Noel says, sitting down on the chair at Calum’s desk. Liam raises his head far enough to give Noel a two-fingered salute, but he’s still grinning, and Noel’s grinning too when he flips Liam off in return. 

Fucking hell, Calum thinks. It’ll take more than his three GCSEs to fucking understand those two. 

\-------

City end up conceding three goals in the first twenty-five minutes, and Liam’s the one who stands up, voice already hoarse from screaming at the TV, and demands they go out. Noel, never one to resist pressing buttons that only he can find on Liam, makes a snide comment about it, and Calum, to keep the peace, makes a comment about United, giving both brothers something to spend the entire bus journey to the Boardwalk ranting about. 

Noel gets them in for free, because he knows someone who knows someone who’d been a roadie with a band who had been on tour with the Inspiral Carpets for like, half a second, or something. Calum doesn’t really care how they get in for free, whether Noel gets them in by knowing someone who knows someone or by hiring a hitman on the bouncer, as long as they _do_ get in for free, because he’d rather save his money for weed. 

The band that’s playing are immediately declared to be _boring little fuckers_ by Liam, who beelines for the bar and only has to flutter his lashes twice before the pretty girl behind the bar sidles up to him with a coy look on her face. To his credit, though, he doesn’t linger after getting the drinks, weaving through the crowd to Noel and Calum with a mixture of shouted insults and threats at anyone in his path, three overfull pints balanced precariously in his hands. 

“You’re paying me back for these,” is how he greets them again, taking a sip from Noel’s before handing it to him. Noel just rolls his eyes, turning back to the stage and raising the pint to his lips. 

“Am I fuck,” Calum says, taking the other beer out of Liam’s outstretched hand. Liam scowls, but lets him take it, taking a sip from his own glass. 

“I’ll just smoke your weed, then,” he says, like he doesn’t do that anyway. Calum just shakes his head and turns back to the stage, where a new band are setting up, fiddling with their amps and mic stands. 

“D’you even know who these pricks are?” Liam asks Noel. 

“Don’t even know if they’re worth knowing yet,” Noel says. Liam shrugs, like that’s a fair point, and then a squeal of feedback makes all three of them (and the rest of the crowd) jump, causing loud swearing from at least eight people in the vicinity as their drinks slosh over them. 

“Fucking hell,” Noel mutters, shaking his hands off. 

“Evening,” the lead singer says, voice deep and rich. “We’re Blur, and this is Popscene.” They immediately launch into something that’s all guitars and overdrive and beat, and Noel’s soon tapping his foot along in interest, spilled beer forgotten, as the singer starts jumping around enthusiastically. They’re not standing anywhere near the stage, and the distance and bright lights combined with the movement are making the singer look more translucent than opaque, which is making Calum’s head hurt. He chooses to focus on the bassist instead, because Noel’s kind of got a point that they should be listening to what else is around, although he’s probably just looking for more people to nick ideas off. 

By the third song, though, Calum realises he’s really stood far too far away to get any benefit from watching the bassist - he can’t even tell whether he’s using a plectrum or not, and his eyes are already starting to hurt from squinting - and lets his gaze wander across the stage. There’s a guitarist wearing glasses, which Calum’s pretty sure Liam’s going to have a comment about that’ll involve the words ‘fucking’ ‘not’ and ‘rock ‘n’ roll’, with maybe ‘cunt’ chucked in for good measure. The drummer’s so far back that all Calum can make out is a shadowy figure behind the kit, and when the singer stands still long enough for Calum to see more than just a hazy figure all he can vaguely make out is what looks like very pretty features and blonde hair. 

It’s the other guitarist, though, that makes Calum stop, his heart stilling in his chest for the briefest of moments. 

He looks so familiar, messy blonde hair sticking up at all sorts of angles that Calum’s only ever seen on one other person, that it makes Calum’s stomach lurch. He’s got his face down, focusing on whatever they’re playing, so Calum can’t really see - not that he’d be able to tell from this distance, anyway - but there’s something that’s so achingly _known_ to Calum that it makes him swallow, mouth suddenly dry. Even the guitarist’s _posture_ is familiar, a little tense, a lot focused, with an edge of something cool and relaxed. 

Calum’s so mesmerised by the guitarist, heart hammering in his chest, that he barely even realises three more songs have come to an end until the band all stop, gather together at the front of the stage and do an awkward half-bow-half-wave to the crowd. There’s a smattering of applause as they straighten up, and the lights are too bright for Calum to see properly, but he sees a flash of a smile that looks so much like one he hasn’t seen in almost four years that it makes something electric shoot through him before he’s even processed it, and then they’re turning around and heading off the stage. 

“Fucking shite,” Liam says, over the sound of the crowd’s growing murmurs. “Would’ve rather watched City fucking lose.” They all know he’s lying. Liam’d probably rather cut off his limbs one at a time than sit at home to watch City get thrashed. 

It reminds Calum where he is, though, as he takes a sip of his beer with slightly shaky hands. He’s in fucking Manchester, in a dingy bar with two of the biggest pricks he’s ever met in his life, watching shitty bands play mediocre songs to avoid having to watch his football team get massacred by Everton. It grounds him, shakes him out of it, makes him remember that he’s here, in England, not in Sydney, and he’s twenty, not seventeen. That was then, and this is now. 

But for a moment - just for a few seconds - he could have sworn that then and now were the same thing. Just for one moment, he could have sworn he’d seen Michael Clifford. 

\-------

They stay to watch three more bands, and then Liam’s in a fucking mood and even Noel’s had enough of the music, so they head back to Noel’s flat to drink and get high. Liam and Noel bicker the whole way there, first about whether or not Liam should be paying for all the weed Noel buys that he smokes, then about whether or not Liam had actually slept over last night or whether he’d been at home, then about whether or not the shirt their mam had bought Noel for Christmas had been green or blue. Calum offers his input on all of them, siding with Noel twice and Liam once, but gets snapped at to shut the fuck up by the both of them each time, making him roll his eyes as he kicks stones along the pavement. 

(“Noel’s a fucking cunt,” Liam had said to him once, fuming, after a particularly nasty argument that had ended in every bag of frozen peas being dug out of the freezer. 

“Yeah,” Calum had said. “So are you, though, mate.” 

“Don’t call my brother a cunt,” Liam had said, and Calum had rolled his eyes, picking up the now-defrosted bag of peas on the table and taking them back into the kitchen, where Noel was nursing his own black eye. 

“What the fuck is his problem?” Noel had said furiously. 

“You’re both twats,” Calum had said with a shrug, tossing the peas back in the freezer.

“Hey,” Noel had said sharply. “That’s my fucking brother.” 

Calum’ll never pretend to understand them.) 

They spend the night lying on Noel’s living room floor, pleasantly drunk and so stoned that Liam and Noel forget to argue for about three hours. Calum drifts in and out of sleep, listening to Liam and Noel mumbling to each other and remembering to speak once every twenty minutes or so, until Noel nudges him at what must be about five in the morning. 

“What’d you reckon?” he says, looking thoughtful. 

“About what?” 

“That band, tonight.” They saw five bands, so Calum would be well within his rights to ask which one, but somehow, he knows. 

“Good,” he says. “Interesting. Sounded new, y’know?” 

“Yeah,” Noel says, rolling on his side to face Calum. He hums, like he’s thinking Calum’s words over. “Liam reckons they’re not rock ‘n’ roll enough.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“Liam reckons the fucking Stones aren’t rock ‘n’ roll enough,” he says, and Noel snorts, and it sounds so fucking ridiculous that Calum giggles, which makes Noel burst out laughing, and soon they’re cackling on the floor, tears streaming down their faces as they gasp for breath and clutch at their stitches. Liam, who’s been sleeping soundly, looking peaceful and tranquil and not at all like the guy who’d threatened to knock Calum’s teeth out for suggesting City should have played a different formation not six hours ago, stirs and opens his eyes, blinking blearily. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he mumbles, and then rolls over, and goes back to sleep. Noel glances at Calum, flushed and panting from laughing, eyes bright and gleaming, and that one look is enough to make the both of them collapse in laughter again, cheeks and sides and throats hurting. 

The next morning, when Liam wakes Calum up by nudging him in the ribs and saying _get up, lazy bugger, we’re late for work,_ that’s what Calum remembers from the night before. He remembers laughter, Noel’s living room going blurry around the edges, and the pleasant buzz of alcohol, weed and two of his best mates thrumming through his veins. He doesn’t remember the boy on guitar in the Boardwalk.

\------- 

The next time fate has her way with Calum is a good year and a half later. 

They’re recording their first album, which Noel seems to think means he’s recording his first album and everyone else is just there to complement his fucking genius. He’s not managed to stop being a cunt for about six months now, and, not one to let Noel beat him in anything, Liam’s getting equally insufferable. The studio is a fucking battleground, and Bonehead always takes Liam’s side and Tony’s just fucking useless, and Calum thinks to himself at least twice a day: _is this really worth it? Maybe I should’ve just stuck with construction._

They’re getting there, though, and when it’s good, it’s fucking good. They can all sense that there’s _something_ there, something new and bold and, as Noel in all his endless humility declares it one night, groundbreaking. They’ve recorded Supersonic, a song that Noel somehow wrote in about half an hour, recorded a video for it on the roof of some warehouse in London, and there’s something about it that none of them can quite put their finger on, something that feels almost overwhelming, feels like it’s bigger than them. They’ve even been on the radio a few times, been playing bigger and bigger venues, got a contract and management and all that nonsense, and for all the flaws that combine to make up the Gallagher brothers, Noel’s got a fucking knack for songwriting and Liam’s voice is unlike anything Calum’s heard before. 

The problem is that lately, it’s been bad more than it’s been good. They’d done sessions at Monnow Valley which had sounded like absolute shit, too clean and thin, and with every day that passed and every track that couldn’t be used Noel got more and more frantic, snapping at everyone who dared speak to him. Liam, never one to resist a fight with his brother, had risen to the challenge, and the fallout had been messier and dirtier and involved more collateral damage than even Calum had expected. It had culminated in a trip to Amsterdam which had ended before it even began after a fight broke out on the ferry. Calum remembers seeing Liam zooming past, a happy grin on his face, heading right for the middle of the action, and then twenty minutes later zooming past again, bruised and bloody, still grinning, being chased by a policeman. It had ended in Liam being deported, handcuffs and all, and a screaming match between the brothers in which both of them quit and were fired by the other at least twenty-three times. 

Since that, though, things have got a little better. They’ve started recording in Sawmills in Cornwall with Noel as a co-producer, and Noel and Liam have started talking again, and everyone had breathed out a collective sigh of relief when Noel had announced he was going to head to the shops and Liam had wordlessly got up to join him. Slowly but surely, things have started looking up. 

It’s in the middle of one of those sessions that everything changes. 

“Eeyar, Calum,” Noel calls, from the corridor outside. “Your mam’s on the phone.” Calum sighs - fucking hell, what does his mum not understand about _we’re recording an album and I’m twenty-two years old, I’ll call you when I fucking call you_ \- but puts his bass aside and gets up grudgingly, trotting outside to see Noel holding out the receiver for him. 

“I want you back in in ten,” he says warningly, like he’s Calum’s dad and they’re eating dinner soon, and Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, which is as good of a _yes_ as Noel’s going to get. Noel sticks his tongue out at him and heads back into the studio, probably to yell at Bonehead from the soundboard for being too loud, or maybe too quiet, or maybe too middling. He’ll find something. 

“What?” Calum says, a little irritably, lifting the receiver to his ear. 

“Hello to you too, Calum,” his mum says smartly. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week.” Calum rests his arm against the wall, and his forehead against his arm, and stares at his shoes. 

“I’m recording an album, mum,” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound too annoyed. “We’re busy.” She makes a small _hmm,_ a _you should have stayed in a real job_ kind of hmm, but doesn’t push it. 

“Are you eating well?” she asks, a stern undertone to her voice, like she knows Calum’s diet right now is entirely liquid. 

“Yes,” Calum lies. He gets another disapproving _hmm_ for his trouble which sounds like it might be the prelude to a speech about how he should stop wasting his time and come home and do a proper job and eat some vegetables, so he decides to change tack. “How’s home?” 

“Oh, home’s good,” his mum says. “Janet next door’s got a new man, invited us to the wedding next month - can you imagine? A wedding in March? I said to her, I said ‘you’ll be wanting to move it to May’, and she said ‘oh, we want an indoor wedding anyway’.” Calum hums noncommittally, because he has absolutely no idea what that’s supposed to mean. What the fuck’s wrong with an indoor wedding in March? “Anyway, your dad and I have decided to go. Janet extended the invitation to you, too, but I said I didn’t know if you’d be back from your recording session.” 

“I don’t know either,” Calum says. “Noel’s being a right cunt about the whole thing.” 

“Calum,” his mum says reprovingly, like she wasn’t the one he picked the word up from in the first place. “Well, regardless, you’ll be home by April, won’t you? I told your dad you’d help fix the wall in the garden.” Calum groans, because that’s pretty much the last thing on the list of things he wants to do, including having Noel claw his eyeballs out for fucking up the bass on Supersonic again, and his mum tuts. “You’ve got experience in construction, Calum. You should put those skills to good use.” 

“I’ve never fixed a fucking wall, mum,” he says. 

“Well, the wall needs fixing,” she says, like that’s that. The wall needs fixing, so Calum’s got to suddenly develop the skills to do it. 

(For her, though, Calum’ll do it.) 

“What’s wrong with it?” he says, already mentally ringing up the cost of the bricks and mortar he’s going to need. “Looked fine last time I was home.” 

“I think the ivy must have loosened the cement,” his mum says. “I was watching TV the other night - I saw Michael on Top of the Pops, actually - and then-”

“Hang on,” Calum interrupts, because he only knows two Michaels, and one of them’s here in Cornwall with him. “Michael who?” 

“Michael Clifford,” his mum says, like it’s obvious. “Anyway, then I heard a huge crash outside, and I told your dad to go and take a look, and he said the wall had caved in. Just a bit, you know, near the shed, but-” she’s still talking, something about foxes and de-weeding the garden, but Calum’s not listening. 

Michael Clifford, she’d said, like it was simple and obvious. Like it stood to reason that she saw him on Top of the fucking Pops. Like it made sense that Calum’s childhood best friend, his fucking everything from the age of seven to seventeen, was on a British music show. 

“Michael Clifford?” he repeats, in the middle of whatever his mum’s saying. 

“Yes,” she says, sounding a little annoyed that Calum’s not listening to her impassioned speech about ivy. “Anyway, your dad said he’d need some help with it, and that it can wait until you’re back. But I want it done as soon as you are, because I don’t like the idea of Janet being able to see into our garden. Oh, that’s the chicken done. Call me in a few days, let me know how things are. Give the others my best. Love you.” She doesn’t even wait for a response, just hangs up, leaving Calum staring at the floor with a dial tone ringing in his ear and a name bouncing around in his mind. 

It can’t be him. She must have been mistaken. What the fuck would _Michael Clifford_ be doing on Top of the Pops? What the fuck would Michael Clifford even be doing in _Britain?_ The last Calum had heard from him, about a year and a half after he’d left Sydney, Michael had been sure about becoming a policeman. He’d seemed so dead set on it, had signed himself up for the academy and everything. Calum might not have heard from him in almost half a decade, but he’s pretty sure nobody would stray so far from ‘policeman in Sydney’ to end up at ‘musician in Britain’. No, he thinks, shaking his head and pushing himself off the wall with his arm, his mum must have been wrong. She hasn’t seen Michael since they’d moved from Sydney five years ago either, so it’s understandable that she’d mixed him up with someone else. 

_But,_ a little voice says, as he heads back into the studio and is greeted with the sight of Liam sprawled across the sofa, laughing at something Noel’s just said, both of them looking far too high-spirited for Gallaghers, _she watched Michael grow up. She knew his face better than you ever did._

“‘Ere,” Liam says, interrupting the voice in Calum’s mind as it’s about to start reeling off a list of times Calum’s mum had spotted Michael in a crowd or down the road or in a photo before Calum had. “Noel says he’ll sprint around the house naked if Tony doesn’t fuck up his drums on this take. What d’you reckon?” 

“I reckon it’s a good thing Tony can’t fucking play drums then, isn’t it?” Calum says, as Liam drops his feet to the floor to make room for Calum on the sofa. Liam snorts, and Noel scowls, but his eyes are still lit up with amusement. 

“Well, _I_ reckon you’re both cunts,” Noel tells them, and Calum grins, hoping they don’t see the way it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and reaches over for Liam’s beer to try and calm his churning stomach. 

\-------

Calum can’t sleep that night. 

He’s usually so drunk that Liam’s gentle snoring doesn’t even register to him as he throws himself down on his bed, often fully-dressed, and falls right asleep, only waking up to fumble around for paracetamol in the middle of the night when his throbbing headache overpowers his exhaustion. He’s not used to lying there, stomach still unsettled, mind racing, staring blankly up at the ceiling, growing more and more frustrated by the noise of Liam sleeping. 

Liam rolls over in his sleep, mutters something under his breath, and then his breathing evens out again, and Calum times the minutes passing by the way he breathes in, out, in, out. The moonlight’s getting brighter - or maybe it’s the sun rising, he’s not sure - and eventually, when Liam rolls over again and smacks his lips in his sleep, Calum’s had enough. He gets up, pads out of the room and down the stairs, heading in the direction of the kitchen for a drink. 

He’s surprised, though, when he pushes the door open, to find Noel sat at the breakfast bar, a sheet of paper in front of him, still wearing the same clothes from the day before. He turns around at the noise of the door opening and mumbles something that sounds vaguely like a greeting to Calum, who grunts back at him as he grabs a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water. 

“Can’t sleep?” Noel asks, and Calum raises his eyebrows over the glass of water he’s gulping down. 

“No,” he says, setting the glass down on the counter. “You?” Noel shakes his head. 

“‘S Bonehead’s fucking snoring,” he says, by way of an explanation, but Calum’s known Noel for five years now, and knows him better than that. 

“And that’s why you’re still dressed?” Calum says shrewdly. 

“Fuck off,” Noel mutters, raising a can of beer to his lips so he won’t have to say anything else. Calum sighs and shakes his head, but chooses not to push him on it, hopping up on the counter and swinging his legs. 

“You writing?” he asks, and Noel looks down at the sheet of paper under his hand, and shrugs. 

“Trying,” he says. Calum hums, and the two of them lapse into a comfortable silence for a while. 

It helps, Calum finds, to be with Noel. He’s never been a man of many words - neither him nor Liam have ever been particularly gifted in that area - but Calum knows he’s always safe with Noel, thrives in the quiet comfort of Noel’s presence. Noel never asks, never pushes, but he’s always there if Calum ever needs anything, and even though they never speak about it, they both know the same is true vice versa. 

(Calum can count on one hand the number of times he’s needed Noel, and can count on one finger the number of times Noel’s needed him.)

That’s not to say Noel doesn’t have his moments, though. He’s obstinate, brash, loud, arrogant, thinks his opinion is worth at least twelve times as much as anyone else’s, and takes himself far too seriously half the time. Calum’s had some of his most memorable arguments with Noel, edged out only slightly by how spectacular his arguments with Liam have been. Both of those, however, are eclipsed by how fucking nuclear the arguments between Noel and Liam are. The two of them bring out both the worst and the best in each other, grating at each other’s virtues and soothing each other’s flaws. They don’t know how to be happy unless they’re dancing along the line between love and hate, and Calum’s not sure it’d work any other way. He’s seen them in their brief, private moments of peace - Liam’s head on Noel’s chest, Noel’s arm wrapped around him, Liam murmuring something about a song or a memory that makes Noel snort, which in turn makes Liam’s lips curve up in a proud smile - but neither of their ships could sail anywhere without a restless sea to guide them. They need the fighting, need the bickering, even need the punches, to keep the wheels turning. A conversation’s not really begun if Noel and Liam haven’t called each other cunts at least twice, Calum thinks, and if Calum’s not been called upon by both of them to call the other a cunt within ten seconds of the inevitable argument breaking out. 

It had been an argument like that a year or so ago that had led to them traipsing to the Boardwalk to watch that band play. Calum remembers the energy they had, raw and a little off-kilter but _something_ there all the same, remembers the lyrical shouting of the singer and the way he’d bounced all over the stage, but not as much as he remembers the guitarist. 

He’d looked so familiar, blonde hair and posture combining to make Calum’s heart ache like no music had ever quite managed to. It couldn’t have been him, though, he’d told himself. There was absolutely no way that _Michael Clifford_ could have been playing in the fucking _Boardwalk._ Michael was in Sydney, back home, probably sunning himself on Bondi Beach and laughing at something Ashton was saying as Luke grinned at Ashton with wide blue eyes. Michael wasn’t in _Manchester._

Except, a little voice in his head says, maybe he was. Maybe Calum’s mum _hadn’t_ mistaken some guy in a band on Top of the Pops for Michael. Maybe it _was_ Michael. 

“D’you know that band we saw, a few years ago?” Calum says, out of the blue, before the thought to say the words has even crossed his mind. Noel looks up at him, thick brows furrowed. 

“Seen a lot of fucking bands,” he says, a little slowly, like he’s trying to figure out what Calum’s actually asking. Calum half-considers dropping the subject entirely, but Noel’s been in the business far longer than he has, and if anyone’s going to know, it’s him.

“The one in the bar. After the City match.” Noel purses his lips, brows creasing further, before nodding thoughtfully. 

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. They’re famous now, they are.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, and swallows. That’s not what he expected - or, he finds, wanted - to hear. 

“Yeah. Heard their first record. Or maybe it was their second, I don’t know. It wasn’t all that.” 

“What’re they called, again?” Calum asks, hoping the question sounds innocent, but Noel’s eyes narrow a fraction. 

“Blur,” he says. 

“Blur,” Calum repeats, testing the word out, letting it sit on his tongue. 

“Why?” 

“No reason,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, like he’s weighing up whether or not to say something, but then seems to let it go, shaking his head.

“You’re a fucking odd one, you are,” he says, which is the nicest thing he’s said to Calum in months. 

“Cheers,” Calum says, with a grin. “Good-looking, too.” 

“Don’t push it,” Noel warns, and Calum laughs, swinging his legs. 

“What’re you writing, then?” he asks. Noel looks back down at the sheet of paper. 

“Don’t know, really,” he says. “Just can’t seem to get it right.” 

“Want me to take a look?” Calum offers. 

“You?” Noel says sceptically. “You barely even play a fucking instrument.” 

“Bass is a fucking instrument, you prick,” Calum says, only half-incensed. 

“You’re up there with the fucking tambourine player,” Noel says, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

“Fuck off,” Calum says, and Noel leans back in the chair, grinning. “You’re the one who bought him that fucking tambourine, anyway.” 

“Little twat might as well do something worthwhile,” Noel says, like Liam’s voice isn’t one of the two indispensable elements they’ve got. 

“At least I can play guitar,” Calum counters. Noel raises an eyebrow.

“Playing?” he says. “Well. If that’s what you want to call it.” Calum scowls and flips him off, and Noel just laughs and gives him a two-fingered salute in return.

“Go on, then,” he says, shoving the piece of paper to the edge of the breakfast bar. “Let’s see how much damage can be done to my genius.” Calum rolls his eyes but reaches over to pull the piece of paper towards him. There’s barely anything on there, just two lines: _I can’t tell you the way I feel/Because the way I feel is oh so new to me._ Fucking hell. 

“I’m off to bed,” Noel says, like he can sense the questions bubbling under the surface of Calum’s frown, and pushes himself back from the breakfast bar. Calum looks up, catches the brief look of _don’t you dare fucking ask me what that’s about_ that flits across Noel’s face, just the most fractional chink in his armour, and nods, hopping off the counter and tucking the sheet of paper into his pocket. He should probably try and get some sleep too, if only because he’s going to have to be in the best frame of mind possible to deal with how insufferable Noel’s going to be tomorrow on three hours’ sleep. 

“I’m going to smother your brother if he’s not stopped snoring,” he tells Noel, following him out of the room. Noel snorts as he starts up the stairs, that strange mixture of derisive and fond that the Gallaghers manage so well. 

“You’ve got more of a fucking chance of him waking up a bird than you do getting him to stop snoring,” he says. Calum sighs, all long-suffering, like this is news to him, even though he’s been sleeping in rooms with Liam since they were seventeen and sixteen respectively.

“Good thing the tambourine player’s expendable, then,” he says, and Noel laughs, soft and quiet in the stillness of the night. 

“You’d be doing the world a fucking favour,” he says, but there’s a strong edge of pride and fondness that Noel only ever gets when talking about Liam, and Liam only ever gets when talking about Noel, and they never get when talking to each other. Calum thinks they’d probably both rather switch to being United fans than ever admit any semblance of love exists between the two of them, but it hums lowly beneath the surface, visible for anyone who bothers to look beyond the black eyes and hurled insults and weeks of refusing to even look at each other. No one can deny that the two of them fucking hate each other half the time, but without the push and pull of their relationship, without the back and forth and the give and take, the band couldn’t work. If the two of them ever lost that, if one of them ever pulled or pushed too hard, that’d be it. It should probably concern Calum more than it does that his entire career is poised on the knife’s edge that is Liam and Noel’s endless tug-of-war, but he's yet to lose the strangely settled feeling in his stomach every time Noel quits or fires Liam that tells him _they'll be alright. You'll be alright. There are still better things to come._

“You’re just saying that because you want to sing,” Calum retorts. 

“Nah,” Noel says with a grin, hand hovering over the door handle of his and Bonehead’s room. “I’m saying it because I want more royalties.” Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too. 

“I’ll see what I can do for you,” he promises. 

\-------

As Calum had predicted, Noel’s a fucking nightmare the next day. 

He snaps at everyone who dares come within a ten metre radius of him, and, when everyone stops going into the same room Noel’s in, he specifically goes out of his way to find Liam to start an argument that ends in Liam complaining that one of his teeth is loose. 

(“It’s not fucking loose,” Bonehead says, and then decides to leave the room, presumably because he doesn’t want to deal with Liam’s moaning and whining. Calum can’t really blame him, and starts to shift surreptitiously towards the door himself.

“Since when are you a fucking dentist, you cunt?” Liam shouts after him, and Bonehead flips him off as he walks away. “You’re coming with me to the dentist, you are.” He’s rounded on Calum now, blocking the path to the door, and Calum sighs. 

“If we get more beer on the way back,” he bargains, and Liam nods.) 

That’s how Calum’s ended up in some posh dental surgery, spread out across a leather sofa and looking very incongruous in his oversized shirt and baggy jeans amongst the glass and the fancy-looking plants, waiting for Liam to come out of his appointment. It’s taking far longer than he’d expected - he’d thought it’d be a quick _your tooth’s not fucking loose, you knob, you’ve definitely had worse,_ like everyone else had told him, but Liam’s been in there for a good fifteen minutes now, and Calum’s getting bored. 

The receptionist keeps making eyes at him, and Calum can’t tell whether they’re _I want to fuck you_ eyes or whether they’re _you look like you’re going to try and rob this dental surgery_ eyes, so eventually he picks up the nearest magazine off the coffee table and flicks it open to a random page just for something to look at that isn’t her. 

There’s a very pretty guy staring back at him when he looks down, blonde and blue-eyed and grinning inanely at the camera, and the caption reads _BLUR: the cocky rebels you’re allowed to love._

Blur. That’s what Noel had called the band from that bar in Manchester last night. _They’re famous now, they are,_ he’d said. 

Calum barely even notices the way his heart speeds up as his eyes fly across the page, scanning the article for any mention of Michael before he really realises what he’s looking for. The author and the singer - Damon, apparently - keep referring to a Mike, an _Australian_ Mike, which puts Calum right on edge, but Michael had never gone by Mike. He fucking _hated_ it, corrected anyone who called him anything other than Michael, refused to respond to any teachers who tried to call him Mike, threw glowers at any classmates who did the same. He’d barely even let Calum call him Mikey in his most vulnerable moments, rubbing small circles on his back soothingly as he coaxed him to throw up all the cheap booze they’d nicked from the corner shop. 

Calum’s fingers are slick with sweat as he’s turning the page and his eyes are starting to water from how little he’s blinking, and he’s not sure whether it’s a good or a bad thing, whether he wants Mike to be Michael or not. When he reaches the bottom of the second page, however, Calum’s heart stops. 

There’s a picture of the whole band. Damon’s standing second from the left, right arm holding his left bicep, head tilted upwards, looking lazy and effortlessly beautiful, like he fucking knows he’s worth looking at. It reminds Calum of Liam a little bit, the way he plays into the camera, the way he knows that with a small tilt of his chin and a slight lowering of his lashes he’ll have half the fucking nation on their knees for him. Maybe that’s just the way singers need to be, Calum thinks, eyes flitting to the ginger guy to Damon’s left, who looks a little uncomfortable, and then to the guy directly on Damon’s right; tall, broody-looking, dark hair swept across his face. To his right is a shorter dark-haired man, looking tense and on edge, and to _his_ right is-

Michael Clifford. 

There’s no mistaking him. He’s got the same blonde hair still sticking up at all sorts of angles, the same sleepy, sea green eyes, the same pretty lips slightly parted in a pout. He’s holding himself confidently, miles away from the slightly scrawny teenager Calum had left behind, staring into the lens of the camera like it’s a challenge. _Come on, Calum. Tell yourself I ever stopped mattering to you, go on._

Calum doesn’t need to read the caption to know it’s Michael, knows it from the way he’s clutching his right wrist with his left hand, but does it anyway, one final, desperate grasp at a straw - _from left to right: David Rowntree, Damon Albarn, Alex James, Graham Coxon, Michael Clifford._

Michael Clifford. 

The words seem to sort of swim in front of Calum’s eyes, like they’re not really there, like his mind’s superimposed them on the article somehow, but the picture’s still there, clear as day. Michael, a hint of stubble on his jaw, face more angled and figure fuller and shoulders broader and God, he looks so fucking good that Calum’s stomach flips and drops and flips again. 

“-fucking hell, Earth to fucking Cal,” Liam says, sounding sort of muffled, and Calum nearly drops the magazine in shock, yanked back into reality so suddenly and jarringly by the sound of his voice. 

“What?” he says, looking up to see Liam with an irritated expression on his face, cradling one cheek in his hand. 

“Let’s fucking go,” Liam says, already halfway to the door. Calum stares after him for a moment, mind trying to process _Liam wants to leave_ over the tangled jumble of _Michael Michael Michael_ currently winding its way through every cell in his brain, before he jumps up, magazine still in his hand. 

“Sir,” the receptionist calls immediately, like she’s had her eye on him the whole time. “You can’t take the magazine with you.” Calum looks down at the magazine, and Liam turns around from the door, a slight tension in his posture that Calum recognises as the one he gets when he’s spoiling for a fucking fight. Christ, he’s not about to deck the fucking receptionist, is he? 

“Or what?” Liam says, a little menacingly. “You gonna fucking stop him?” 

“I just-” 

“What the fuck do you want with the fucking magazine, eh? Fucking paid enough for the appointment, buy yourself another." 

“C’mon,” Calum mutters, rolling the magazine up and hurrying over to Liam, putting a hand on the small of his back. “Let’s go.” Liam hesitates for a moment, like he’s torn between going to get beer or shouting at a receptionist, but eventually the alcohol seems to win in his mind, because he settles for throwing her one final glare and letting Calum guide him out of the door. 

“What’d they say?” Calum asks as they walk out, his hand still on Liam’s back, because he knows Liam better than to trust he won’t just change his mind on a whim and go storming back in to give the receptionist a piece of his mind for not wanting Calum to take a fucking magazine. 

“Don’t fucking know,” Liam mutters, pushing open the door to outside. Calum shivers a little when the cool late-February air hits him, and decides that Liam’s probably safe now, letting go of him to wrap his arms around himself as they head back to the car that’s been waiting for them. “Sounded like he said something about my flaps.” Calum snorts. 

“Bit forward of him,” he says, and Liam grins. 

“Why’d you take that fucking magazine, then, eh?” he says, rounding the car without looking into the road and flipping off the car that has to screech to a halt to avoid running him over. 

“What?” Calum says, a touch shiftily. “Oh. Saw a good article in it. Wanted to finish reading it.” Liam throws him a look over the top of the car, a look that’s unnervingly shrewd, but then shakes his head and ducks into the car. Calum does the same, taking a moment to tuck the magazine into his pocket and feeling it weigh down one side of him, unbalancing him just slightly. It’s kind of apt, he thinks as he gets into the car. Michael had always made him feel a little unbalanced, too. 

“Let’s get some fucking beer,” Liam announces, and Calum grins, trying not to think about the way the magazine feels pressed between him and the seat. 

“Let’s get some fucking beer,” he agrees.

\-------

Calum doesn’t look at the magazine again until a good week later. 

He’s drunk, and maybe still a little high, which is the driving force behind the whole evening. They all are, because Liam had scored some great coke off some guy called Neville, which Calum had declared to be the funniest dealer name in all of history, leading Bonehead to admit that his weed dealer used to be called Barnaby. Noel had sided with Calum, claiming Neville was far worse than Barnaby, and, predictably, Liam had jumped straight in on Bonehead’s side, and after about two minutes of shouting Tony had mumbled something about not being drunk enough for this and slipped out of the room. 

“Fucking useless,” Liam says derisively, as Tony walks out. “I should fire him.” 

“I fired _you_ two days ago,” Noel says, pointing at Liam with the card he’s using to cut up the coke. “You can’t be firing anyone.” 

“It’s my fucking band,” Liam says, incensed, like it’s not actually Bonehead’s band that Liam had wheedled his way into. 

“Who writes the fucking songs?” Noel counters. “You just play the fucking tambourine and look mardy.” 

“Fucking greatest frontman in the world, I am,” Liam says indignantly. 

“You’re too fucking high to find the front of the stage half the time,” Noel says contemptuously. 

“I know where the front of the fucking stage is,” Liam says, pointing at Noel with one hand and Calum with the other. “‘S between knobheads numbers one and two.” Noel rolls his eyes, too busy cutting lines to flip him off, so Calum does it on both of their behalfs, and Liam grins, swigging from his beer. 

“Save us a fucking line,” Bonehead says to Noel, who’s just bent down to hoover up at least four of the thin white lines on the table. 

“Get your fucking own,” Noel grumbles, like he’s the one who’d scored it, not Liam, but he lets Bonehead push him aside, slumping back against the sofa. 

“Greedy cunt,” Bonehead mutters, and Noel swats him upside the head, handing him the card. 

“We should have a fucking celebration,” Liam declares grandly, gesturing widely with his beer bottle. 

“For what?” Noel says. “Album’s not even fucking finished yet.” 

“Sounds fucking great, though,” Liam says. 

“Well, _you’ve_ clearly not heard it then, have you?” Calum says with a snort, accepting the card Bonehead holds out to him and leaning over towards the coke. There’s not much left, but Liam’ll fucking do one if he doesn’t leave any for him. “Fucking hell, Noel. You a fucking vacuum?” Noel just grins and shrugs at him, cocaine clearly starting to settle into his veins, and Calum rolls his eyes, cutting two thin lines for himself and leaving enough for the same for Liam. 

“It’ll sound great once it’s mixed,” Liam insists, as Calum bends down. 

“That’s what you said last time,” Bonehead points out. 

“No I fucking didn’t,” Liam says, even though he’d literally spent about a week bouncing around saying _it’ll sound fucking great when it’s mixed, just you fucking wait. It’ll be fucking biblical._ Calum straightens, wincing slightly and pinching the end of his nose, and throws Liam a look. 

“You fucking did,” he says. Liam scowls at him, and motions for the card. “Come over here. No way you’ll reach the coke from over there.” Liam rolls his eyes but complies, heaving himself up and then throwing himself down next to Calum, making a noise of outrage when he sees how little is left for him. 

“What the fuck, Noel?” he demands, and Noel just cackles. Christ, he’s blitzed out of his fucking mind already. 

“We should fucking celebrate,” Noel says, like he hadn’t shot down Liam saying it not two minutes ago. 

“Celebrate _what,_ you prick?” Calum says, wrinkling his nose as the bitter cocaine drips down his throat. Fucking grim. At least his mouth will be too numb to taste it soon. 

“Fucking all of it,” Noel says. “Us. Recording an album. The fact that we’re going to be number fucking one.” Calum snorts, but he’s starting to feel a little giddy, a little warmer, and he leans back with a grin. 

“Number fucking one,” he repeats, and Liam nods solemnly next to him. 

“Fucking right,” he says, like it’s what they’re owed. Calum catches Bonehead’s eye and grins, knows he’s thinking exactly what Calum’s thinking - _yeah, us two fucking deserve it for putting up with the both of you._

“Just wait ‘til we release Supersonic,” Calum says, shuffling up a little to rest his head on Liam’s shoulder. Liam’s arm comes around him, warm and comforting, and he squeezes Calum absent-mindedly as he hums contentedly. Calum lets his eyes flutter shut, euphoric and a little overheated, grinning to himself as he lets himself fantasise. Number fucking one, he thinks to himself. Fucking imagine. 

“Knock those Blur cunts off the top,” Noel says, and Calum’s eyes fly open. 

“What?” he says. 

“Their new song,” Noel says scornfully. “Fucking, what’s it? Girls who like boys who like girls who like boys, something like. Fucking shite.” 

“New song?” Calum echoes, mind trying to work around the cocaine to process what he’s being told. 

“Am I the only one who fucking listens to the radio?” Noel demands. “That’s our fucking competition, that is. We’ve got to knock them off the top spot.” 

“Competition,” Calum says slowly. Competition. Michael Clifford is his competition. 

And, fucking hell. Does Michael even know Calum’s his competition? Does Michael even know Calum’s in Oasis - does Michael even _remember_ Calum? It’s been what, four fucking years now since the letters had petered out, since Calum had got too caught up in his new life of Liam and Noel and drugs and music and Michael had been too busy with his family and friends and the fucking police academy. Michael might not even recognise Calum, might not even remember his name. 

(Something tells him, though, even through the haze of drugs and alcohol, that they could never forget each other. After all, it says, who forgets their first kiss? Who forgets their first fuck? Who, it says, a little too knowingly for Calum’s liking, forgets their first love?) 

Liam seems to have sensed something’s up because he’s frowning, waving a hand in Calum’s face, and Calum blinks, shakes his head abruptly and sits bolt upright. He stopped loving Michael. He fucking did, no matter what the churning in his stomach might be telling him. That’s just the fucking booze.

“What the fuck’s up with you?” Liam says, sounding annoyed.

“Don’t feel great,” Calum says, which isn’t entirely untrue. The high’s too high, and the alcohol’s making his stomach clench and contract, and he’s sweating a little too much, and his hands are clammy, and- 

“Oh, fucking hell,” he says, a little faintly, and lurches to his feet, crashing into the bathroom next door and only just making it to the toilet bowl before he’s throwing up everything he’d ingested in the previous twenty-four hours. He’s glad he’s still high because it means he can’t quite taste the bile in his throat, can’t entirely feel the way his stomach’s heaving that he distantly registers is going to absolutely fucking kill tomorrow. 

Halfway through his retching someone appears behind him, kneeling down beside him and rubbing small circles on his back comfortingly. Calum feels fucking pathetic, slumped over the toilet bowl with tears leaking out of his eyes, someone making quiet, soothing sounds behind him, all because of fucking Michael Clifford. 

(That thought makes him retch once again.)

“Waste of fucking coke, that is,” the person says mildly when he’s finished, leaning up and flushing for him, and it’s Liam. Of course it’s Liam. No one else would willingly spend their short high in a tiny, cramped bathroom watching Calum throw up. Noel would probably lock him in and turn off the water supply, maybe grab a camcorder for good measure. 

Calum huffs out something that’s supposed to be a laugh but sounds like more of a sob as he sits back, wipes his upper lip and forehead and rests his head against the cool tile wall. Liam sits down opposite him, legs pressed against Calum’s because they’re both too fucking big for the bathroom on their own let alone together, and blinks at him. 

“Fuck brought that on?” he says, more curious than anything. Calum’s stomach lurches again, images of Michael smiling at him sleepily on a Saturday morning, of Michael with his head tipped back in detention, laughing at something Calum had said, and the picture of him in the magazine, so much older and yet so fucking familiar, flashing through his mind in rapid succession. 

“Probably just overdid it,” he says weakly. Liam gives him a hard stare. 

“A fucking baby would’ve had a hard time getting high on what you snorted,” he says. 

“Baby wouldn’t’ve drunk five fucking beers beforehand, though,” Calum says, coughing slightly and wincing as he tastes the echo of acid at the back of his throat. 

“Depends whose baby it is,” Liam says. “Pretty sure mine would.” Calum snorts, and lets his eyes flutter shut as he starts to come back to himself a little, shivering and wrapping his arms around himself as he realises how cold he is. Fuck, he’s all clammy. Gross. 

Almost as though he can read Calum’s thoughts, Liam nudges Calum’s knee with his own. 

“You’re fucking rank,” he says. 

“Cheers,” Calum says, not opening his eyes. 

“Take a fucking shower.” Calum pulls a face. He’s not in the fucking mood to shower. 

“Tomorrow,” he says. It’s not like Liam’s never done the same. 

“You’re fucking _rank,_ ” Liam tells him again, like he’d not thrown up in the sink two nights ago and left it there overnight, but he puts his hand on Calum’s shin and pats it, and Calum offers him a weak smile. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he says. 

“What, go back in there and listen to our kid break his neck sucking his own cock? Don’t fucking think so,” Liam scoffs. “I’ll be fucking sober in five minutes, anyway, given the amount of coke you pricks left me.” Calum smiles again, a little less wobbly this time. 

“Sober?” he says. “You drank twice as much as me.” 

“Not all of us are fucking Aussies, though, are we?” Liam says, and Calum can hear the grin in his voice. “Might as well be a fucking southerner, you.” That makes Calum open his eyes a fraction, enough to glare at Liam. 

“Piss off,” he says. “You and your fucking Irish blood. I’d drink anyone else under the fucking table.” 

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Never met anyone who could outdrink me, let alone an Aussie.”

“You’ve never met any except me, you prick,” Calum says, and Liam grins. 

“Well, most of you fuckers are smart enough to stay where it’s warm and sunny and the birds are fit, aren’t you?” he says. “Only the stupid ones end up here.” Calum scowls, and kicks at Liam’s leg half-heartedly. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “Didn’t choose to move here, did I? Got dragged kicking and screaming.” 

“But you’re still here,” Liam points out, and Calum finds he doesn’t have an answer to that. At least, he thinks, not one he’s willing to give Liam. 

“You must miss it,” Liam says when Calum doesn’t answer, a little surprised, like the thought’s only just crossed his mind after five fucking years of friendship. Which, knowing Liam, is probably the case. 

“Australia?” Liam hums his assent. “Dunno. I guess. I miss Vegemite.” He hesitates, before adding: “Mostly miss my mates, though.” 

“Oh?” Liam says, cocking an eyebrow at him. “You still talk to them?” Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. After all, it had been him that had ignored the last letter Michael had sent him. He’s the one who hadn’t written back. 

“No,” he says. “Phone calls are too expensive, and none of us are fucked writing letters.” 

“Ah, well,” Liam says, stretching out on the tiles and sighing contentedly. “Just you fucking wait ‘til we’re number one. You’ll see them then. We’ll be touring Australia three times a year, and that.” Calum can’t help but snort. 

“Three times a year?” he says. “There’s only five fucking cities worth playing in.” Liam grins. 

“And you’d better have friends in all of them, mate,” he says. “Not bloody paying for hotels if I can help it.” 

“My mates are all in Sydney,” Calum says, and there’s a little tug in his chest as he realises that actually, that might not be true anymore. He doesn’t know what happened to Ashton and Luke, either. If Michael can go from police cadet in Sydney to fucking famous musician in the UK then Ashton and Luke are probably, like, astronauts, or something. Maybe he should check with the ASA. 

“What?” Liam says curiously, clearly seeing the expression on Calum’s face, and Calum hesitates.

He’s not sure whether he should tell Liam. What the fuck would he even say? _My ex, sort of, is in the band Noel’s lining up as our competition? You know Blur? Yeah, I fucked one of the guitarists._ Liam wouldn’t get it. _Great,_ he’d say, eyes gleaming. _Eeyar, you must have some good stories about him. You can embarrass him in the press._ Or maybe, _get in, mate. Infiltrate them, eh? Fucking good thought. Oi, that Damon’s alright, isn’t he? Maybe I’ll have it on with him._ He wouldn’t understand the weight behind it, what Michael meant to Calum. Means to Calum. Fuck, he doesn’t know anymore. 

“I think a mate of mine might have moved over here,” Calum says eventually, when Liam raises an expectant eyebrow. It feels fucking weird calling Michael a mate. The word doesn’t feel quite complete in his mouth, like maybe there should be a _soul_ prefixing it. 

“Oh aye?” Liam says, raising his other eyebrow too, like he knows what Calum might mean by ‘mate’. “Where’s he living?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum admits. Liam hums, like he’s thinking it over. 

“D’you want to know?” he says, in that strangely perceptive way he sometimes does. Calum shrugs, and hopes Liam doesn’t catch the tension in his shoulders. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Dunno. Depends.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Liam doesn’t ask him to. Instead, his emotional capacity probably filled for the night, he claps his hand on Calum’s thigh. 

“Want to see if we can get Noel to piss himself?” he says, eyes bright, and Calum can’t help but snort. 

“‘Course I fucking do,” he says, getting to his feet. Liam braces himself on the sink as he pulls himself up, a little unsteady, and grins. 

“Ten quid says he does,” he says, and Calum snorts. Noel had pissed himself _once,_ three years ago, and Liam can’t fucking let go of it. 

“You don’t fucking have ten quid,” he says, following Liam out of the room, still feeling a little light-headed and woozy, but no longer nauseous. 

“Neither do you,” Liam counters, pushing open the door to the living room, and Calum has to concede there.

“How about the loser sucks the other’s dick, then?” he says, grinning, and Liam throws his head back as he laughs. 

“You’re on,” he says over his shoulder, eyes twinkling. 

“Who’s getting who to suck their dick?” Noel demands. 

“You’re helping me get Calum to suck my dick,” Liam tells him, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Noel and resting his head on Noel’s chest. Almost instinctively, Noel’s arm comes around him, holding him close. Calum could almost be fooled into thinking they’re in some sort of a truce, that the booze and cocaine have broken down the barrier of hatred between them and left only the underlying love, until Liam reaches forwards, picks up a bottle of beer and holds it to Noel’s lips with a wicked grin. 

“Drink up.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of this dialogue is real canonical sentences taken from noel and liam's mouths thank you gallagher brothers for your service to this fic 
> 
> i'm still at uni still vibing still trying not to think about how i have to clean an entire flat and pack up my whole room but thats a problem for future helen next time you see me i'll be back home i'll be back writing like 10k a day of this fic and hopefully having some more thoughts about the soulmate au and [redacted] i do actually have lots of thoughts about the soulmate au but i really need to finish this off first i MUST finish a chaptered fic i must. i have literally never finished a chaptered fic on softirwin BUT DON'T FEAR this one will be finished i've got over 50k written already and that's more than half of it and i'm still going i'm still going fear not fear not 
> 
> i'm literally going to thank sam at the beginning of every single one of these chapters i cannot stress enough how much life sam has breathed into this fic by just letting me spew my absolute nonsense and bounce ideas and for chatting about this fic with me i cannot believe you're not bored of it yet just give it a few thousand more words but you are truly the life and soul of this fic i can't thank you enough for still hanging around on the doc this fic is literally a collaborative effort at this point i just love seeing you up there knowing i'm not writing alone why is it so comforting i have no idea clearly i shouldn't be writing fic alone who wants to do a collab 
> 
> i hope everyone is safe and healthy and listening to britpop xo oh also almost forgot my usual PLUG follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) :)

Predictably, Noel doesn’t piss himself. He also doesn’t aim a punch at Calum when he finds out about the bet, though, which is his way of saying _hope you’re alright._ Instead, he just cuffs Liam upside the head, calls all of them pricks, and announces he’s going to bed. Liam rolls his eyes and calls him a boring cunt, which earns him another clip around the ear, but not two minutes after Noel and Bonehead have filed out of the room, Liam’s yawning and saying that he might turn in too. Calum, not wanting to be left in the living room on his own during a comedown, follows him out, listening to Liam mutter something about Tony and firing him because he’s almost as much of a boring cunt as Noel all the way up to their room.

Liam crashes almost as soon as they get in, passing out fully-clothed on his bed, and, as Calum’s trying to carefully pick his way through the debris littering the floor from his bed to the ensuite to brush his teeth, he trips over something that makes him stub his toe against the wardrobe and swear under his breath. He winces, gripping his toe as he looks for the offending object on the floor to give it an angry kick, and finds-

The magazine. 

_The_ magazine. The one he’d nicked from the dental surgery, the one Liam had nearly got in a fight over, all because of one tiny, glossy picture of Michael Clifford. He hasn’t looked at it since that day, too sober and too busy being yelled at every single minute of the day by Noel for playing too rough, or playing too clean, or playing at all. He hasn’t wanted to, either, hasn’t wanted to be confronted with the evidence that Michael’s carried on living without him, that he’s not that same seventeen year old boy that Calum had left behind in Sydney Airport half a decade ago. 

That’s not to say he’s forgotten about it, though. Far from it - even in his pretty-much-permanently inebriated state, the little picture of Michael, stubble and all, has been playing around in the background of most of his thoughts. It’s easier to ignore when he’s with the others, when Noel’s snapping at him or screaming at Liam, when Bonehead’s rolling his eyes and passing him another joint, when Tony’s muttering about how Noel expects far too much of him, when Mark’s chivvying all of them to get up and get in the fucking studio, don’t they know they’re paying two thousand quid a day for this shit? It’s easier to focus on snapping at Noel, on stepping back from the brothers and leaving them to it, on taking a long toke from the joint, on ignoring Tony while whole-heartedly agreeing with him, on rolling his eyes as he shuffles into the live room and picks up his bass. He doesn’t have to think too hard, then, doesn’t have to let his thoughts stray from the here and now back to being seventeen and sun-kissed and in love. 

Now, though, on his own, teetering on the brink of a comedown but still pleasantly drunk, Liam passed out and snoring gently on the bed a few feet away, Calum’s got nothing tying him down. There’s nothing for him to ground himself in, no stern, suspiciously-Noel-sounding voice in his mind telling him to stay fucking focused, or he’ll get a clip round the ear. 

So, before he’s even really thought about it, Calum leans down and picks the magazine up, flipping straight to the page with the little picture of Michael on. 

Even though he’s prepared this time, even though he _knows_ he’s going to see Michael, older and broader and taller, his stomach still starts its best impersonation of a fucking Olympics tryout when his eyes find Michael at the bottom of the page. Christ. It’s like looking at someone Calum had seen every day for years at a train station, or maybe in a dream; he’s instantly recognisable but doesn’t quite match up to the mental image Calum’s got of him, lips a little plumper and eyes a little darker than Calum had expected. He looks like a mixture of someone so fucking familiar to Calum - the way he’s got his hands tucked in his pockets and his head tilted back a little - and someone Calum’s never met before, with the way his eyes are dark and almost hungry, the way his lashes are lowered slightly, the way he’s holding himself with such an air of confidence. 

Calum sits down on the edge of his bed, disgusting taste in his mouth forgotten as he flips back to the first page of the article and starts to read. Mike, the singer calls him. Mike Clifford. It’s fucking ridiculous. Michael had always _hated_ being called Mike, would always use his last vestiges of energy to lift his head from the toilet and protest weakly whenever Calum called him Mikey. The only time Calum had ever actually got away with calling him Mikey was when he was stroking his hair and Michael was crying into his chest, drunk and stoned and fucking miserable about Calum moving to the UK. 

_Mike’s our secret weapon,_ the singer (Damon, as Calum’s reminded) says, with an ‘air of confidence’, apparently. Calum briefly wonders what he means by that as his eyes flit to the next paragraph, mind lagging a few seconds behind. What kind of a war does he think they’re fighting? 

_Of course we’re a British band,_ Damon comments later on. _We sing about British life, British experiences. Mike’s not penning songs about kangaroos and shrimps on barbies, is he? And anyway, he can outdrink the lot of us, which is what really matters. Are these really the best questions NME can come up with?_ Calum can’t help the way his lips twitch at that. _That,_ at least, sounds like Michael. 

_It was serendipity, I think,_ Damon ‘muses’ a few paragraphs later, according to the journalist. _We were looking for a second guitarist, and Mike had just moved over. He was living with Graham - he knew him through a friend from Sydney - and when Graham mentioned that he thought his band might need a second guitarist, Mike mentioned he could play._

 _It never came up in conversation before?_ the journalist asks, and Damon apparently ‘smiles wryly’. 

_That’s Mike for you,_ he allegedly says, with a shrug, and Calum feels a strange, hollow tug at his heart. Yeah. That is Michael. _Anyway, he came along to a practice session and gelled perfectly with the rest of us. In fact, he brought some new ideas, a breath of fresh air that I think we needed. You know, the rest of us are four lads from the south who all grew up in similar circumstances and listened to similar music. I think we needed the different perspective._

That’s all Damon says about Michael. It leaves a sort of sour taste in Calum’s mouth - although, in fairness, that might just be the aftertaste of vomit - because this ‘Mike’ doesn’t sound like Michael, doesn’t feel like Calum’s- well. Whatever Michael ever was to him. 

They’d never actually spoken about it. There had never been a conversation, an _are you my boyfriend now, then, or what?_ They’d just both known - I’m yours, and you’re mine, and that’s all that matters. It had made it easier, Calum thinks, for him to justify it to himself when he got caught up in his new life, when Liam’s bright blue eyes started swimming in front of Michael’s sea-green ones, when harsh cackles were dubbed over soft laughter, when loud and brash northern accents started taking up more of his thoughts than gentle Australian twangs. _We weren’t actually together,_ he’d told himself, every time he saw a letter in the post and his stomach twisted with guilt. _You don’t owe him anything._

In fairness, it hadn’t just been him. Michael’s letters had stopped coming once a week, started coming once a fortnight, and then once a month. But it was Calum’s responses that got ever shorter, from pages and pages to a few half-hearted sentences, because Liam would often barge in halfway through and demand he comes down to the Boardwalk with him _right fucking now,_ and it got harder and harder to justify to himself why he was giving up spending time with one of his best mates to write letters to a boy whose middle name he’d already started to forget. And it was Calum who had seen one last letter from Michael, tossed it on his desk to read later, and then forgotten about it until it was too late and his mum had already thrown it out. He’d barely cared, at the time, because Liam had crashed into his room, Calum’s mum tutting loudly at him from downstairs, and announced that he’d joined a band and they were the best band in the fucking world, and Calum should fucking join, and when Noel got back from tour he’d definitely join too, and they’d be the fucking second coming of the Beatles. 

The guy staring at him from the picture, older and more confident, doesn’t seem like the same guy who’d sent Calum all those letters, telling him _I miss you. I’m saving up to fly over to the UK. We’ll be together again, in a year or two. Don’t forget about me._ It feels like there are two of him - Calum’s version, Michael, the boy who’d blink at Calum through dark, inky lashes and press soft kisses along his jawline, and this Blur version, Mike, the guy who stares back at Calum almost defiantly, like he’s daring him to keep looking. 

Calum’s not sure whether it’s the drink or the drugs or whether it really is Michael, five years older and having grown into himself and built up a life without Calum, that’s making his stomach twist and turn and his heart sink like this. Or maybe it’s the guilt, all the love and regrets that Calum’s pushed down over the years and paved over with bricks of Liam and Noel and music, that’s stopping him from being able to tear his gaze away from the little Michael on the page, looking like he knows Calum’s eyes are glued to him. 

Calum shifts, and in the near-silence of the room he hears something crinkle in his back pocket, and he frowns, lifting his hips up and fishing a messily-folded piece of paper out. He unfolds it, wondering whether he’s left a receipt or something in there, and finds two scrawled lines of text. 

Noel’s lyrics. 

_It was serendipity, I think,_ the singer had said in the article, and Calum finds himself thinking the same thing as he stares down at the mostly-empty sheet of paper. Maybe this is supposed to mean something, he thinks. Probably just that his jeans are in desperate need of a wash.

There’s a guitar propped up next to Liam’s bed, one he’s been messing around on in what he says is boredom but Calum knows is an attempt to write something that Noel will throw a kind word or two at, and Calum’s grabbing it and setting it on his lap before he’s even really thought about it. He’s not a songwriter, never has been - he’s always wondered how the fuck Noel can retreat into a back room and come out half an hour later with a song like Supersonic - but right now, lyrics on one thigh, picture of Michael on the other, the words and the notes feel like they’re bursting to get out of his mind and down on paper. 

Not for the first time, Calum’s glad Liam’s a deep sleeper, so he doesn’t have to lock himself in the too-big, too-empty living room to write. There’s something comforting about Liam’s presence, something that reminds Calum that he’s not alone, his deep breathing the thin line that ties Calum’s old life to his new life. Calum breathes along with him for a moment, a little drunkenly, like he’s trying to let as much of Liam as possible seep into his veins, maybe hoping he can absorb Liam’s don’t-give-a-fuck attitude and brash courage enough to get the words out without buckling under their weight.

There’s a pen on his bedside table, and he reaches over for it, uncaps it, holds it in his teeth, and starts to strum, humming along to the melody he’s had in his head since reading Noel’s lyrics. It only takes him a few minutes to find the right chord sequence, shifting into a key he knows Liam’ll be able to sing, because Calum knows he won’t be able to sing this himself. It needs a layer of removal, something that Calum can place between himself and the song and look at without having to look any further. 

_There we were now here we are_ _  
_ _All this confusion nothing’s the same to me_ _  
_ _There we were now here we are_ _  
_ _All this confusion nothing’s the same to me_

 _I can’t tell you the way I feel_ _  
_ _Because the way I feel is oh so new to me_ _  
_ _I can’t sell you the way I feel_ _  
_ _Because the way I feel is oh so new to me_ _  
_ _  
_ _What I heard is not what I hear_ _  
_ _I can see the signs but they’re not very clear_ _  
_ _What I heard is not what I hear_ _  
_ _I can see the signs but they’re not very clear_

 _So I can’t tell you the way I feel_ _  
_ _Because the way I feel is oh so new to me_ _  
_ _I can’t sell you the way I feel_ _  
_ _Because the way I feel is oh so new to me_

 _This is confusion, am I confusing you?_ _  
_ _This is confusion, am I confusing you?_ __  
_This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you_  
_This is confusion, we don’t want to feel you_

The words almost seem to write themselves, ink on the page before Calum’s inebriated mind has even had time to think. Noel’s words slot in flawlessly as a chorus, the perfect contrast to Calum’s muddled, drunken musings, and it only takes about twenty minutes before the whole song’s done, every chord written, every word penned. And, to Calum’s surprise, it sounds really fucking good. 

He sits back, fingers stilling on the strings, and stares down at the sheet of paper. The words look hasty, rushed, a little crooked, and Noel’s going to have questions about the shakiness of the letters, but that’s a problem for a later Calum. 

He reads over it again while he’s still drunk enough to allow himself to, knowing he’ll hate it in the morning, and then puts the pen down to the paper again to write a title. 

_Confusion._ No, that doesn’t sound right. It’s too vague, too impersonal. _New to me._ No, that’s a cop-out. _Then and Now._ No, that won’t be obvious enough. 

And that’s it, Calum thinks, swallowing thickly. He _wants_ it to be obvious. He wants Michael, and only Michael, to know that it’s about him, _for_ him. 

(“How will you know it’s me?” Calum remembers asking urgently one night, standing in the hallway on the phone to Michael, who had just called to mutter that he’s grounded, not allowed out, Calum needs to sneak in and make sure he makes it obvious that it’s him and not Luke or Ashton or else Michael won’t open his window. Apparently Luke, the sly little bastard, has taken to telling Michael it's Calum so Michael opens up for him.

“Say it’s- um-” Michael’s breaking up, and Calum clutches the phone closer to his ear like it’s going to make him any more audible.

“Say what?” 

“Column-” 

“Say it’s _Column?_ ” Calum’s incensed. “Michael, d’you fucking know how to pronounce my name?” 

“Fucking- _Columbia_ ,” he makes out, and then the line goes dead.) 

Calum only hesitates for a split second, enough for the tiny scrap of him that’s still sober tell him _this is a terrible idea,_ and then the alcohol in his blood barges in, shouldering the remnant of his rational side out of the way and telling him _do it, what the fuck have you got to lose? It’s a fucking great idea._

Yeah, Calum thinks wildly, as his pen touches the paper again. Fuck it. Michael probably won’t hear it, anyway. 

_Columbia._

\-------

Calum plans to keep the song to himself, to sit on it and tell himself he’s agonising over whether or not to show Noel when he knows full well he’s got absolutely no intention of doing so, but, as though he can read Calum’s fucking mind, Noel corners him at lunchtime the next day. 

“So,” he says, blocking Calum’s path out of the kitchen as Liam trails after Tony in the direction of the live room, complaining loudly that if he has to eat one more fucking ham and cheese sandwich he’s going to burn the fucking kitchen down. “That song. What’d you do to it?” 

“What song?” Calum says, momentarily stumped. They’ve just been recording Slide Away, and Calum’s pretty sure he hasn’t fucked anything up so far. In fact, he’s absolutely fucking certain he hasn’t, because if Noel’s stopping them mid-recording to shout at Tony to tighten his floor tom then he’d definitely have thrown a fit over Calum playing a wrong note, or a fraction of a second too fast, or whatever. 

“You know,” Noel says. “The one. From the other night.” He’s acting a little sketchy about it, a little guarded, and that’s what makes it click - oh. _That_ song. The one Noel had been writing on his own in the kitchen at fucking five in the morning, and Calum had finished off at about three last night, drunk out of his mind.

“Oh,” Calum says, and he feels his expression shift into something just as evasive as Noel’s. “Uh. Yeah. I wrote something.” 

“Well, let’s fucking hear it, then,” Noel says. Calum hesitates. 

“Not in front of everyone else,” he says, because he knows the guitars are all in the live room, and by the time it’s cleared out Noel might have forgotten about the song altogether. Noel raises an eyebrow, but nods. 

“My room,” he says. 

“Now?” Calum says, looking down at his sandwich. “Can’t I fucking eat?” 

“Now,” Noel confirms. “We’re on a tight fucking schedule, Cal.” 

“Didn’t stop you spending half of Tuesday fucking off your head,” Calum shoots back. Noel just flips him off, like that’s a fucking answer, and walks out of the kitchen, presumably to fetch a guitar. Calum sighs, stomach sinking, because he hasn’t looked at the lyrics since he wrote them but he has a slightly hazy memory of knowing he’d hate them sober. He’s far too fucking hungover to stomach the fight that’s going to ensue if he refuses to play it to Noel, though, so he just sighs again, deep and resigned, shoves half the sandwich in his mouth and heads up to his room to pick up the sheet of paper with the lyrics and chords on.

Noel’s already in his room when Calum pushes the door open a little too roughly, perched on the edge of his bed, and he holds out his second-favourite acoustic guitar by the neck for Calum to take. Calum does, yanks it out of his hands to tell him _I don’t fucking like that you’re making me do this_ without having to say it - not that Noel will care either way - and sits down on Bonehead’s bed, pulling the guitar into his lap and smoothing the sheet of paper in front of him so he won’t have to look at Noel.

“Right,” he says, and he can hear the nervousness in his own voice. “Don’t fucking laugh.” 

“Won’t if it’s not worth laughing at,” Noel promises, which is as good as Calum’s going to get from him. He swallows, positions his fingers, and starts to play. 

It sounds horrible, he thinks, as he’s playing. He has to try not to wince, because his voice cracks on the words as they drip with the kind of raw honesty that only a song written about his sort-of ex at three in the fucking morning, drunk and halfway between a high and a comedown, can summon. It’s too much for him, hearing his own voice sing the words that he doesn’t want to admit that he means, overwhelms him with the way it makes his heart clench in his chest to hear himself say _nothing’s the same to me_ , and he has to stop before he can reach the end, stilling the strings and shrugging at Noel a little tensely. 

“You get the gist,” he says. Noel blinks at him. He’s not laughing. 

“That’s going on the album,” he says. Calum stares at him. 

“You’re taking the piss,” he says flatly. 

“D’you think I’d fucking take the piss about kicking one of _my_ songs off the album to make room for _yours?_ ” Noel says, and, yeah, that’s a good point. 

“Well, I’m not singing it,” Calum says, before Noel gets any ideas. He’s not putting _that_ out there, him singing a fucking half-love song for Michael. He'd have to be on every drug in the world to even get all the way through it. 

“Why not?” Noel says. 

“Can’t.” 

“You fucking can. Just did.” 

“I’m not fucking singing it, Noel.” Noel purses his lips, looking like he’s weighing up starting a fight with both Calum, who’s very clearly chosen this hill to die on, and Liam, who can’t stand feeling like a spare part, versus relenting and getting something he might not like as much musically but won’t potentially end in a trip to the hospital.

“It won’t sound as good,” he says, sounding annoyed, but that’s a concession from him. 

“I’m arsed,” Calum says. Noel looks at him for a moment, hard, eyes flitting across every crevice of Calum’s face like he’s trying to find the weak link, and then he leans back with a sigh. 

“You sound dead fucking British,” is all he says, a little too calmly for the conversation they've just had, and Calum feels like there’s something more to it that he should be able to pick out but can’t quite discern from the careful guardedness that fronts it. 

“Been here five years, haven’t I?” he shoots back, feeling like he’s on the back foot, somehow. 

“Wouldn’t even know you were Australian if you weren’t such a lightweight,” Noel says, and Calum rolls his eyes. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “I could outdrink all five-two of you any day, Irish blood and all.” Noel flips him off, but his eyes still look far too calculating for Calum’s liking. 

“You know Blur have an Australian guitarist?” he says, and Calum can see from the shrewd look in Noel’s eyes that that’s it, that’s what he’s been leading up to, and Calum’s stomach bottoms out. 

“Oh?” he says, trying to straddle the line between interested enough and uninterested enough. There’s no way Noel can know, he tells himself, as his heart rate picks up. Calum’s never mentioned any of his mates back home to Noel before, let alone mentioned _Michael._ And even if he did, there’s no reason to make _that_ assumption. Noel doesn’t even know Calum dates guys, and only knows he fucks them because of one night three years ago that neither of them speak about. 

“Mm,” Noel hums. “He’s from Sydney.” He doesn’t say anything else, states it like it’s just an interesting tidbit of information, but the implication is clear. _Maybe you know him._ A challenge, or maybe a test. 

“So’s a quarter of Australia,” Calum says, pleased with how cool and collected he sounds. Noel cocks his head.

“Weird, though, isn’t it?” he says. “What’re the odds?”

“Since when are you all fucking superstitious?” Calum asks. Noel shrugs. 

“Just think it’s a strange coincidence,” he says lightly. “Two British bands with Australian members, fighting to be number one.” 

“Who’s fighting to be number one?” Calum says. “We haven’t even released a single.”

“Yeah, but anything we release’ll be better than their shite,” Noel says derisively, eyes narrowing, and Calum exhales quietly, because it means the moment’s passed. “Girls who like boys who do boys, or whatever. Fucking shite.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, like ‘I’m feeling supersonic, give me gin and tonic’ is any better,” he says, and Noel scowls and kicks at Calum’s shin. 

“Just you fucking wait,” Noel says, and it sounds like a fucking threat, like Calum’s going to be held personally responsible if Supersonic doesn’t go to number one. Which, knowing Noel, is a distinct possibility. 

“I’ll fucking wait,” Calum tells him, setting the guitar aside. 

“Eeyar, what d’you think you’re doing with that?” Noel says, nodding at the guitar. “If you don’t want to sing it, you’ll have to play it to our kid.” The thought makes Calum’s stomach clench. He never wants to sing the fucking song ever again. In fact, he wishes he'd never sung it to Noel in the first place, wishes he'd just dealt with the taunts and jeers that would have come from Noel if he'd thought Calum hadn't been able to get a song down. It'd still be more bearable than having to listen to his own drunken, honest thoughts spilling from his sober lips. 

“You really want to put it on the fucking album?” he says, and he can’t help the note of doubt that creeps into his tone. It's a good song, yeah - really fucking good, actually - but is it as good as Noel's?

“It’s good,” Noel says, which, from Noel, might as well be a declaration that it belonged on the White Album. 

“Not as good as yours,” Calum says. Noel fixes him with a stare, a _really, don’t you fucking dare make me say it’s better than one of mine_ kind of stare, and Calum sighs. It is a good song - it’s definitely better than Cloudburst, might even be better than Sad Song - but he’s not sure he can go through playing it to Liam, Bonehead _and_ Tony. Playing it to Noel was fucking bad enough. 

“Play it to our kid,” Noel says again, like he can read the exact thoughts behind Calum’s stricken expression. “I’ll sort out parts for Tony and Bonehead.” 

Calum loves him.

\-------

(Liam frowns at him when he trails off halfway through the bridge. 

“That’s fucking mega, that is,” he says, but his tone doesn’t match his words. 

“Cheers,” Calum says, and swallows thickly. Liam doesn’t say anything else, even though Calum can tell from the way his fingers are twitching that he wants to, just hesitates and then sighs and pulls Calum into a tight hug.) 

\-------

They finish recording the album in mid-March. It’s their second attempt, and it _still_ sounds wrong, so their record label, in one last-ditch attempt to save it, send it off to Owen Morris for mixing. 

Noel’s progressed beyond irate and lashing out at any and all of them for fucking up his precious album to complete despondence, retreating into himself, sitting staring silently out of the car window as they get driven back up to Manchester, not even rising to the bait when Bonehead threatens to steal his Sergeant Pepper vinyl. In the strange, symbiotic way that the brothers have - or maybe just because they’d shared a room for sixteen years and Liam had been at the receiving end of enough of Noel’s tantrums to know how to cope with them - Liam seems to know exactly what Noel needs. He sits close to him, throws an arm around him, pulls him in so Noel’s head is resting on Liam’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything, carries on normal conversation with the rest of them with a slight edge to his tone, like he’s challenging any of them to fucking comment on the state Noel’s in. They all know better than that, of course. Anyone who’s spent more than thirty seconds in either of the Gallaghers’ presence would know better than that. 

When they get back to Manchester, predictably dull and drizzling slightly, they all head off in their separate directions; Liam and Noel to Noel’s flat, Bonehead to the flat he shares with his girlfriend, Tony back to his parents’ house. Calum, too, heads back to the boring little two-up two-down he’s spent the past five years in.

“You look a state,” is how his mum greets him when he drags his bags out of the car and up the garden path. She holds her arms out for a hug and Calum hesitates for a moment - he _knows_ he reeks of last night’s alcohol with maybe a pinch of stale weed added to the mix - but she gives him a stern look and he relents, wrapping his arms around her and inhaling the familiar scent of home-cooking and books. 

“You smell terrible,” she says disapprovingly, when he pulls away. Calum shrugs. 

“I’ll shower when I get in,” he says. 

“You’ll fix the wall first,” she says, and Calum sighs. Not the fucking wall. 

“Not the fucking wall,” he mutters, and his mum tuts at him, but steps aside to let him into the house. 

“Your dad’s outside already,” she says, as Calum drops his bags next to the stairs. 

“He’s not tried to do anything to the wall, has he?” Calum says, because if his dad’s had anything to do with it, Calum’s going to have his work cut out for him. 

“He said he was just going to take a look,” his mum says, and Calum swears under his breath and heads for the back door. His dad has never quite grasped that ‘just taking a look’ doesn’t require prodding and poking and, on one memorable occasion, a blowtorch. 

As Calum had expected, his dad is frowning at a section of collapsed wall, a mortar board piled high with badly-mixed mortar in one hand and a brick trowel in the other. 

“Fucking hell, dad,” Calum says, jogging up and snatching the mortar board out of his hands, making his dad whip around in surprise.

“Hello to you too,” he says mildly. “How was Cornwall?” 

“Great,” Calum says, and takes a step back so his dad won’t smell the booze on him. “What the fuck are you doing to the wall?” 

“I saved the bricks that fell out,” his dad, gesturing at a haphazard pile a few metres away. “I was going to use those to fix it.” 

“Not with this, you weren’t,” Calum says, brandishing the mortar. “I’ll mix some more tomorrow. And you can’t be laying bricks in the rain.” His dad looks up at the sky. 

“It’s just drizzle,” he says.

“It’s enough,” Calum says. His dad looks at him for a moment, wavering between _son, if I say the wall needs fixing the wall needs fixing_ and _you do actually know what you’re doing,_ before sighing and holding his hands up in defeat. 

“Fine,” he says. “But your mum will have my balls if it’s not done first thing tomorrow.” 

“She’ll have your balls if you do it in the rain and it falls apart again in three weeks, too,” Calum tells him.

“At least I’ll get three extra weeks with my balls, then,” his dad says as they make their way back inside, and Calum snorts. 

“That was quick,” he hears his mum shout from the kitchen, a little reprovingly, as Calum sets the mortar board down on the table. He’ll deal with it later. 

“It’s raining,” Calum shouts back. 

“It’s what?” his mum calls, turning down the upbeat, almost disco song playing on the radio.

“It’s raining,” Calum repeats. “Can’t lay bricks in the rain.” 

“It’s only drizzling.” 

“D’you want to go and fucking do it, then?” Calum says, exasperated, and his mum pops her head out of the kitchen with a frown. 

“Calum,” she reprimands, and he sighs. He needs to fucking shower, and then sleep for about seven years until his liver’s had a chance to process at least half of the shit he’s ingested over the past few weeks. 

“Sorry,” he says, and he means it. “I’m going to go and shower.” His mum nods, and her head disappears again, and he hears the radio turn up again. The song’s finishing up, something about how it always should be someone you really love, and Calum finds himself nodding along as he heads for the stairs and picks up his bags. It’s catchy, he thinks, and not like anything he’s heard in a while. Maybe he should recommend it to Noel; he could do with nicking ideas off someone other than Paul McCartney once in a while. 

“And that was Blur, with Girls and Boys,” the radio host announces as the song starts to fade out, and Calum’s fingers slip in the handle of the bag in his right hand, causing it to fall on his foot. He curses under his breath, trying to think about the pain rather than the way his heart’s skipped a beat. 

“Calum?” his mum calls from the kitchen. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, mum, sorry,” he shouts back, wincing and flexing his foot, steadying himself on the banister with his now-free hand as he tries to listen to the radio over the pounding in his ears. Another song’s started now, though, and Calum shakes himself out of it, picking up the bag and heading up the stairs to have an excuse for his racing heart and heavy breathing. 

It feels fucking weird, he thinks, dumping his bags on the floor of his room and throwing himself down on the bed, to have heard Michael without hearing him. He would have paid more attention to the song if he’d known he was listening to Michael’s fingers pick out those notes. He can still hear the riff in his mind, bouncing around as it tries to find its way out but enclosed in a bubble of _Michael_ like a good portion of Calum’s thoughts have been for the past few weeks. It doesn’t feel quite right, though, Michael’s guitar playing on Calum’s radio in Manchester. It feels like Mike, not Michael, and the thought makes him feel a little queasy. 

He rolls over, staring at the blank wall in front of him as he waits for his heart to slow down. _Always should be someone you really love,_ the guy - what was it, Damon? - had sung. It feels like a fucking joke, now, leaves a bitter taste in Calum’s mouth that that line is the first he’s heard of Michael in five fucking years. It’s like the universe is just having its way with him and laughing about it. 

( _It was serendipity, I think,_ Damon had said in the article, but Calum tries not to let the idea cross his mind.) 

\-------

Supersonic is, in fact, as Liam and Noel crow at least five times a day, fucking mega. 

The single comes out in early April, when they’re in Middlesbrough, or maybe Stoke, or maybe Leeds - somewhere northern, cold, wet, and miserable. It’s played on the radio a few times, and it makes something warm spread from Calum’s heart to his toes every time he can pick out his own bass, every time he hears Noel’s lazy solo, Liam’s gravelly drawl, Bonehead’s overdriven chords. Even Tony’s drumming makes him grin, giddy on the high that’s him, _them,_ him and his three best mates (and Tony) coming together to create something that, fuck whatever the charts say, sounds fucking _good._ It’s raw and it’s rough around the edges and it’s melodic and it’s dirty, and it’s ‘fucking rock ‘n’ roll’ if Liam ever gets half a second to comment on it, but, more than all of that, it’s them and Calum loves it. 

It doesn’t do amazingly, but none of them even care, because they _know_ it’s good. Noel’s already busy arguing with Marcus at the record label about whether Shakermaker or Live Forever should be the next single, shouting at him on the phone whenever they get somewhere with a payphone. The tour’s going well, too; there’s not been a venue they haven’t sold out yet, and the crowd actually know all the songs, now, screaming out the words whenever Liam takes a break for a swig of beer. 

They’re playing Glastonbury in June, which Noel seems to think is the fucking be all and end all of their entire career despite the fact that they’ve released one album. He’s taken it upon himself to ensure that every waking minute that they’re not playing shows or off their heads on whatever substances they’ve been able to put up their noses is spent with him telling them in minute detail exactly how he’s going to skin them alive if they miss _one_ more beat or hit the wrong string _one_ more time. Even Liam isn’t safe, despite his lack of a proper instrument, after missing one of the higher notes in Supersonic one night in Liverpool. Calum’s never believed in God, but he thinks the fact that he was rooming with Tony and the brothers were rooming with each other that night, screaming at each other out of Calum's earshot, might be evidence of divine intervention. 

Further potential evidence for the existence of God comes in the form of an invitation to an awards show to be held in early June, which is the only thing that could possibly have appeased Noel. It doesn’t stop him shouting at Liam for fucking breathing, or whatever it happens to be that hour, but it placates him enough to keep the band together, which is what matters. He starts writing like crazy, and by late May already has six songs that he claims are good enough for their second album, and Calum’s floored when Noel rips the curtain to his bunk open one night and shoves an unfinished song at him with a look on his face that says _if you fucking tell anyone about this, I’ll have your balls. I’ll fucking have them._

(“D’you think me growing up in Australia brings a different perspective to the band?” Calum had asked the previous day, thinking of the interview he’d read with Damon, and Noel had snorted, not even looking up from his guitar. 

“Do I fuck,” he’d said. “I’m the fucking genius here. Why, ‘s someone been telling you you’re important? Do I need to remind you that you barely even play an instrument?” Calum rolls his eyes and flips him off, but it settles his stomach a little to know that Noel's not giving him the songs because of some abstract musical perspective, but because of his talent. And, maybe, because Noel might just be a little fond of him.) 

The awards show isn’t anything huge, not NME or anyone that Liam thinks matters, but Noel tells them that it’s the _principle,_ that the fact that they’re being nominated for awards is what counts, and that they’ll fucking well show up. Liam still looks like he’s going to argue about it, probably just because his instinct to do the opposite of whatever Noel tells him overrides even his survival instinct, but he grudgingly agrees to go when Calum reminds him about all the free alcohol that’s sure to be there. 

The ceremony’s much bigger than Calum had expected, held in a theatre that’s had the stalls cleared out to make room for tables for artists and their teams to sit at. They’re shown to a table on the far right of the room, and Calum sees names like _Elastica_ and _Björk_ on the tables they pass on their way, which makes him think that this might actually be a bigger deal than they’d thought it was. Their table is tucked away in a corner, which Calum thinks probably isn’t a good sign, but can’t bring himself to care that much about when he sees the three bottles of champagne waiting for them. 

They’re tipsy before the show’s even begun, barely even noticing the room filling behind them as they call for more champagne, grinning and yelling at each other across the table as they all think _fuck me, we’re really doing this, then?_ Even Noel somehow manages to dislodge the stick from his arse and laugh along when Liam starts heckling every single act that wins an award. It’s just fucking fun, Calum thinks, watching Noel and Liam put their arms around each other and yell the lyrics to Creep as Radiohead win an award, changing out half of the words for increasingly creative variants of words for certain parts of the male anatomy. It’s just a good fucking time with his best mates. 

Liam’s so caught up in the heckling, yelling _rubbish! Fucking rubbish!_ before the winners have even been announced, and they’re all so caught up in laughing at him that they don’t even realise _they’ve_ won an award until Marcus glares at them pointedly, and they realise that the reason they suddenly can’t see properly is because there’s a spotlight on them.

“Best live act!” Noel shouts, grinning, and Calum shoots up and out of his seat and is hugging Noel and Bonehead, jumping up and down, before he can even think about it. Best live act, fucking hell. 

“Rubbish!” Liam’s yelling, sounding absolutely irate. “Fucking rubbi- oh, that’s us.” He stands up calmly, flashing Marcus a winning smile as he walks past on his way to the stage, and the rest of them follow in his wake. 

“Best fucking live act,” Noel repeats, like he can’t quite believe it. Their first fucking award. "That's all me, that is." 

“You wanker, you’re rubbish,” Liam tells him, as they jog up the stairs onto the stage. “You can’t even play the guitar.” Noel cuffs him upside the head, but he’s still grinning, and Liam grins back at him as they walk over to accept their awards, shake a lot of sweaty hands, and make their acceptance speech.

“Right, then, who’s first then?” Liam says, leaning into the microphone and pulling his sunglasses down to survey the crowd. “It’s gotta be you there with that weird haircut. How many haircuts you got there, four?” He leans back as the crowd laughs, looking deadpan, but Calum can see the way his lips twitch as he soaks up the laughter and smattering of applause. Calum shakes his head, grinning, and looks out at the sea of faces looking back at him, trying to really absorb the moment, anchor himself so he’ll remember it tomorrow despite the champagne. There are a few people he recognises, which feels fucking insane - that’s fucking Robbie Williams, over there, presumably sat with the rest of the blokes from Take That whose names he doesn’t know, and he thinks he can make out the singer of Radiohead in the corner, and there’s the frontwoman of Elastica, and next to her is that Damon guy from Blur, and-

Oh, _fuck_.

Noel’s moved on to speaking now, a little more seriously than Liam - which isn’t saying much given that he’s currently in the middle of thanking himself for being such a genius and writing such impeccable songs - but the words are washing over Calum as his eyes flit to Damon’s left, taking in the moody-looking dark-haired guy and the ginger guy, and then to his right, a dark-haired guy in glasses and- 

And Michael. 

Calum thinks his legs might fucking give out. Staring back at him, eyes wide and jaw clenched, is Michael. Michael Clifford. _His_ Michael. Fucking hell. 

In the bright lights, Calum can see the tension in Michael’s shoulders, the way he’s sort of hunched into himself, sort of sat up straight, like he’s ready for a fight. He can see the shock on Michael’s face, the underlying hurt and pain in the twist of his lips, the way his fist is clenched on the table. He looks nothing like Calum had ever envisioned when imagining them reuniting, no carefree laughter and bright, joyful eyes. Calum’s sure he doesn’t look much better, lips slightly parted in surprise, pure horror written all over his face, but he can’t bring himself to care when Michael’s right there, in front of him, five years older and five years prettier, making Calum’s heart skip and race like it’s singlehandedly trying to win the fucking World Acrobatics Championship of 1994.

Liam’s taken the mic back off Noel to add a quick thank you to the people who voted for them, and then Noel’s clapping him on the back as they walk offstage, but Calum’s rooted to the fucking spot, can’t take his eyes off Michael. Neither of them are blinking, and as the lights sweep from the audience to them Calum almost loses Michael in the darkness, just sees the slight gleaming of his eyes, still fixed on Calum. 

“Fucking come on,” Noel nigh-on shouts in his ear, startling Calum out of it, and his feet unstick themselves as Noel puts his hand on the small of Calum’s back, guiding him off the stage. Calum tears his gaze away, looks down at his feet so he won’t trip down the stairs, and by the time he’s got to the bottom and is looking out into the sea of faces again, he’s lost Michael. He searches in vain all the way back to their table, trying to map out just how far to the right the Blur table is from the Oasis one based on where it had been in relation to the stage, but then Liam’s in front of him, waving an award in his face and grinning inanely, and Calum’s line of sight is blocked by Bonehead jumping on Liam’s back, and Noel’s shouting something at the three of them through a smile, and Calum’s being forced into his seat. 

The rest of the ceremony passes in a haze. Liam carries on heckling every act that gets up on stage, waving his award around over his head like it’ll somehow further his point, and Noel almost cries laughing at the sight of him until Liam’s fingers slip and the trophy goes flying and hits Noel smack in the face. Even that isn’t enough to get more than the ghost of a smile out of Calum, whose stomach is still twisting, eyes still flitting across the crowd, breath still catching every time a new award is announced just in case Michael will have to walk past their table, traipse up the stairs to their right, look down at Calum from the stage. Blur don’t win anything, though, much to the brothers’ delight, and as soon as they realise it’s winding down Liam’s saying something about an afterparty and trying to get up and leave before the ceremony’s officially ended. Tony grabs his arm and pulls him back down, mutters something about taking photos that both Noel and Liam scoff at, but one look from their management is enough to keep the two of them in their seats, albeit with glowers and grumbles. 

The hosts close the awards in the most long-winded way Calum’s ever seen, and then they’re being ushered into some back room to take photos along with all the other acts. Noel and Liam are drunker than Calum’s seen them in months, shouting and laughing and throwing their arms around each other and pressing kisses to anyone who dares walk within five metres of them, and, seeing how irritated the rest of the acts and the photographer are at their antics, they ramp it up, yelling and screaming and singing until everyone’s shooting them filthy looks and Calum’s almost managing a proper smile. His eyes have been roaming the room since they got in, looking past the miserable looking bloke from Radiohead because he thought he’d seen a flash of blonde that had turned out to be Robbie Williams’ terrible haircut, but either Blur have already been and gone or they’re still hanging around outside. 

“Cal,” Liam shouts, and then Calum’s being pulled into a headlock - quite a fucking feat, actually, because it’s Noel doing the headlocking, and he’s a good half-foot shorter than Calum. “What d'you reckon, eh? Best band on the fucking planet!” 

“Don’t think that was quite what they said,” Calum says, and Noel ruffles his hair before letting him go, just enough that Calum can stand up straight, and wrapping an arm around Calum’s waist. Calum leans into it, a little unsteady from the alcohol and Michael, relishing the comfort of a steady anchor to counter the way he feels so fucking unbalanced from seeing Michael in the flesh again after five years. 

“You’ve got to read between the _lines_ , Cal,” Liam says earnestly. “They might not’ve _said_ it, but it’s what they meant.” 

“Eeyar,” Noel says suddenly, grinning wickedly. “Is that who I think it is?” Liam twists, following Noel’s gaze, and Calum does the same, turning to the door and finding-

“‘S fucking Dermot All-bran!” Liam crows, cackling gleefully as Damon’s eyes flit to the three of them. He smiles, pretty and polite, and heads in their direction, and as he comes through the door with the woman from Elastica in tow, four more people file in behind him - ginger guy, moody guy, glasses guy, and, to the detriment of Calum’s heartbeat, Michael. 

“Congratulations,” Damon calls, nodding at the award in Liam’s hand. He’s almost reached them, and the rest of his band are trailing behind him, and Calum’s heart is beating so fucking fast and loud that he can barely hear Liam screaming next to him over the pounding in his ears as he watches Michael get closer and closer, carefully avoiding Calum’s burning gaze. 

“Fucking right,” Liam says proudly. “Fucking best band in the world, we are. Real rock ‘n’ roll stars. Not like you posh fucking wankers.” The guy in glasses behind Damon rolls his eyes, and something that looks like irritation flashes across Damon’s face, but Calum barely cares. 

Michael’s still not looking at him, all of three feet away, and Calum’s skin is fucking _crawling,_ itching with the desire to reach out and touch him, to force him to look at Calum, to slot their fingers and their legs and their lips together again, just to see if they still fit. Fuck, he shouldn’t have drunk all that champagne. 

“Don’t think we’ve met,” the tall guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Alex. This is Graham-” glasses guy, who nods tightly, “-and Dave-” ginger guy, who holds up a hand in an awkward wave, “-and you know Damon. And our resident Australian, Mike.” 

“Looks like a cunt,” Liam remarks, and Calum vaguely registers Noel and Bonehead laughing next to him, loud and giddy and a little spiteful. 

“Ours is better than yours, anyway,” Noel says, arm tightening around Calum, somewhere between defensive and proud. Damon raises an eyebrow, a definite challenge in his eyes now. 

“Is that so?” he says, and in the two years since Calum last heard him speak he’s forgotten how different his speaking voice is to how he sings, eloquent and deep and rich. It’s a secondary thought, though, because Calum’s still staring at Michael, willing him to take his eyes off Damon and look at Calum for just one fucking second, but Michael’s face remains carefully blank, and the closest he gets to looking at Calum is sending Liam a scornful glance. 

“Aye, ‘course it is, you prick,” Liam says, brash and careless, and Damon turns to Calum. 

“Calum, isn’t it?” he says. Calum tears his gaze away from Michael for a moment, enough to see the way Damon’s holding himself, and that whatever Calum says next is going to form Damon’s entire opinion of him. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, aiming for bold and confident to match Liam, because that’s where his loyalties lie now, and hopes no one else can hear how dry his throat is. 

“Didn’t you have a mate in Sydney called Calum?” Damon says, almost idly, turning to Michael. “Was he the one that moved to the UK?” Calum watches the line of Michael’s throat as he swallows, and tries not to superimpose the bruises his lips had left there the night before he’d left Australia for the first and last time on top of it. 

“Yeah,” he says, and Calum’s heart fucking splinters at the sound of his voice. Even in that one syllable, he can hear his Michael, the same tone and sound and depth, but there’s a new edge to it, something slower and more controlled than the wild seventeen-year-old Calum had left behind. The years without Calum have added a gloss to him, a new confidence in his voice and his expression and how he holds himself, and Calum just wants Michael to fucking _look at him._

Fuck it, he thinks - or maybe the champagne thinks for him - and he swallows. 

“Hey, Michael,” he says quietly, and all hell breaks loose. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if only pints were still £2.50...them were the days. anyway HELLO i'm back home now moved all my stuff out of my uni room which was insane my parents had to hire a van to fit it all in i don't know how i've accumulated so much stuff in the space of a year but anyway. IRRELEVANT what is very relevant though is that my thirst for noel gallagher is simply growing and i really need to stop it if anyone has any tips please send them my way because even the foot picture didn't help
> 
> again thank you damon albarn for his services to this fic aka for the canon dialogue before to the end at glastonbury the funniest part of any blur glastonbury set is when damon just goes 'there are a lot of people here' and then they launch into the next song. like what on earth is going through that man's head at any moment i wish i could be inside it for just a day but i think it'd be like staring into the sun it's too powerful my own brain would break 
> 
> and of COURSE thank you to the most wonderful sam for reading this ENTIRE fucking thing (ENTIRE! THING! can you fucking believe even i haven't read the entire thing i can tell you right now the only bits of this i have read are the bits i put in bold to edit when it's in the chapter text box ready to be posted) i cannot tell you enough a) how much i appreciate it b) how much i love your comments and thoughts and c) how much i just generally love you and talking to you truly one of the best people in this fandom hands down 
> 
> i hope everyone is well! i hope we are vibing! i hope life is okay for you! also can't forget my usual cheeky plug follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) :)

Liam, despite - or maybe because of - the various substances coursing through his system, is the first to react. 

“What the fuck?” he says, sounding somewhere between perplexed and outraged. “You fucking know this bloke?” 

“I fucking knew it,” Noel says, fierce and furious and edged with humourless glee. “I fucking  _ knew.  _ Soon as you fucking asked me about them, I knew.” He laughs, hysterical and bitter. “God, you’re an absolute fucking  _ cu- _ ” 

“Hang on a minute,” Damon interrupts, looking from Michael, who’s staring at his feet, to Calum, and back again. “That’s  _ your _ Calum?” 

“He’s not  _ my _ Calum,” Michael mutters to the floor. 

“Fucking sounds like he is,” Graham remarks coolly. 

“How the  _ fuck _ do you know him?” Liam demands hotly, rounding on Calum.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell us?” Damon says to Michael, voice dangerously calm. “How long have you known?” Michael shrugs uncomfortably, and his right hand comes up to fiddle with his earlobe, and it fucking  _ hurts,  _ because Calum  _ remembers _ that, remembers how Michael would nervously tuck an errant strand of hair behind his ear and play with his earlobe while his eyes flicked from Calum’s eyes to his lips and back again. 

“You fucking  _ cunt, _ ” Liam spits, and he sounds like he actually fucking means it, and Calum’s heart drops. 

“Eeyar,” Bonehead says sharply, and puts an arm on Liam’s bicep. “Let’s not do this here, eh?” Fucking hell.  _ Bonehead,  _ of all fucking people, being the sensible one. 

“No,” Liam says, trying to shake Bonehead’s hand off, “let’s fucking do it here. Right fucking here, Calum. You fucking tell me right fucking now why the  _ fuck _ you never told me you were mates with one of the cunts from Blur.” Damon raises his eyebrows at that, looking somewhere between incensed and amused. 

“Noel,” Bonehead says, pleading, and Calum watches Noel’s expression change from  _ fuck Calum, fuck him,  _ to  _ shit, Bonehead’s right. Not in front of Blur.  _

“Liam,” Noel says, and Calum’s never heard him sound so fucking serious in his life. Liam looks at him furiously, a silent conversation happening between the two of them that nobody else can understand, all furrowed brows and twisted lips,  ending only when Liam throws his hands up in the air, shoots Calum one last glare, and stomps out of the room.

“Mr Gallagher-” the photographer calls after him, and Liam spins on his heel, fists already balled, and Calum barely has time to think  _ oh, shit _ before Noel’s running after him and physically manhandling him out of the room as Liam starts shouting random strings of curse words that don’t even make any fucking sense. 

Not for the first time, the Gallaghers leave a stunned silence in their wake as their shouting and yelling gets further and further away, broken only when artists start sending each other uncomfortable looks and murmuring under their breaths. Calum barely even registers it, though, too busy staring at the door Liam and Noel have just barged out of, heart in his mouth. Fuck. 

“Well,” Damon drawls, tone a little too casual, jolting Calum back to reality. “Think you’d better go after them.” 

“Fuck you,” Calum grits out. He throws one final, desperate look at Michael, who’s still steadfastly not looking at him, and then, steeling himself, sets off in the direction of the door. He hears Bonehead and Tony echo similar sentiments at Damon as he jogs through the door, looking left and right until he sees Noel and Liam at the far end of the corridor, Liam waving his hands in Noel’s face as he refuses to listen to whatever Noel’s trying to tell him. 

“...right  _ fucking _ cunt, is what,” Liam’s saying as Calum gets closer, sounding indignant. 

“I  _ know _ that, Liam, but-” Noel breaks off as he spots Calum approaching, and takes a step back, putting a hand on Liam’s arm without even thinking about it. 

“What the  _ fuck _ is wrong with you?” Bonehead demands, catching up with Calum. Calum’s not entirely sure who he’s directing the question at, so he just shrugs uncomfortably. 

“What the fuck’s wrong with  _ me? _ ” Liam says, sounding enraged, and jabbing a finger at Calum. “What about what’s wrong with this cunt, eh? Didn’t fucking think to mention that he knows one of the pricks in  _ Blur _ .” 

“Is it that big of a fucking deal?” Tony says, and then immediately shrinks back under the weight of a double-Gallagher withering stare. 

And Calum gets it, he does. If he found out Liam knew Damon, a member of their main competition, and never thought to fucking mention it, he’d be beside himself. It’s the principle of it, he thinks, guilt making his stomach roll. You choose your band first. You don’t hide things like that from your band. 

“Look,” he says, and Liam and Noel both turn to glare at him. 

“No,” Liam says, and makes to take a step forward. Noel’s hand tightens on his arm - a warning - and he stops halfway, still glowering at Calum. “You’re a  _ right _ fucking git, you are. Why the  _ fuck _ didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell  _ me? _ I’m your best fucking mate, I am.” Calum swallows, but the guilt doesn’t go down with the saliva. 

“I know,” he says. “I- fuck. I haven’t known for long.” It’s a poor excuse, and he knows it as the words trip off his tongue. He should have told them as soon as he found out. 

“What the  _ fuck _ d’you mean, you fucking  _ arseho _ -” 

“Liam,” Noel says sharply, and Liam huffs, but shuts up, fuming silently as Noel turns to fix Calum with a hard stare. Fucking hell. Calum fucking hates their bad-cop-worse-cop spiel. 

“You’d better have a good fucking explanation for why you didn’t tell us,” Noel says, in that same dangerously calm tone that Damon had used on Michael earlier. It makes Calum’s heart constrict, because when Noel’s angry at him it’s hot bursts, heated words and blazing eyes, never this, this fucking coldness. There’s something behind it, something more to it, and he doesn’t know what it is. 

Calum meets his gaze and holds it for a moment, searching through all the righteous anger and fury, watching rage and indignation and bitterness flit through those baby blues until he catches it. It’s just a snippet, just the tiniest fragment that Noel’s let slip through his scowling armour, but it’s there. 

Hurt.

It makes Calum’s stomach curl up into a small ball and then unroll itself ungracefully, twisting almost nauseatingly when his gaze flits to Liam, to the same blue eyes on a different face, and he sees the exact same storm of emotions - incensed, livid, _hurt._ _That’s_ what this is about. He’s hurt them. 

“I do,” he mumbles, a little apologetically, and Liam throws his hands up in the air and turns his back on Calum, walks a good five steps away muttering  _ oh, this should be fucking good, _ before turning back around, hovering in place, like he doesn’t quite trust himself to get any closer to Calum.

“Go on then,” Noel says coldly, and Calum sees his hands ball into fists at his side. Calum takes a wary step back, tripping on Bonehead’s foot, and holds his hands up. 

“I’ll tell you,” Calum says, eyeing Noel’s fists, “but don’t you fucking deck me.” Noel considers that for a moment, just a split second, and then cocks his head. 

“You’ll get decked if you fucking deserve it,” he says evenly _ , _ and Calum has to concede that that’s kind of fair. 

“How the fuck d’you know him?” Liam demands, still about six feet away. Calum hesitates. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him, can almost feel the curiosity in Bonehead and Tony’s eyes boring into the back of his head and the hurt and rage in Liam and Noel’s gazes, and he swallows again. 

He could tell them Michael’s his childhood best friend. It’s not a lie, after all. They’d never stopped being best friends, not when they kissed, or when they fucked, or when they fell in love. It had always been there in the background, a soft hum under Calum’s fingers in Michael’s hair, under Michael’s lips on Calum’s throat. It wouldn’t be a  _ lie, _ as such, just an omission of some of the facts. 

But Calum knows it wouldn’t explain everything, wouldn’t explain why he hid it for so long and why he’s acted so fucking weird about it, and he knows if he doesn’t tell the rest of them everything now, they’re fucking finished. And it’s not the band he cares about - fuck the band, give a fuck, he’ll go back to Manchester and fucking fix garden walls for the rest of his life - it’s his friendships. 

Liam and Noel have been everything to Calum since he moved to Manchester. It had been sheer fucking luck of the draw that  _ Gallagher _ and  _ Hood _ were next to each other in the register, so, four days into his new school and completely friendless and alone, he’d been shafted with quite possibly the worst Chemistry partner anyone’s ever had. Although, he has to concede, he’s probably the second-worst Chemistry partner anyone’s ever had, and it didn’t matter anyway, because they were both interested in  _ other _ types of chemistry, other chemical reactions that could be obtained with money or flirting. Once they’d figured that out, worked out that neither of them cared about school and both of them cared about getting high and having a laugh, it had been a pretty small step from  _ eeyar, my mam’s out at work, d’you want to bunk off and nick some of her booze? _ to  _ you’re the only cunt in the world I care about, you are. The only fucking one.  _

Noel hadn’t been in the picture, then, too busy on the road with the Inspiral Carpets (much to Liam’s endless fucking pride), and when he’d come home a year later in the middle of the night he’d scared the absolute shit out of Calum, who’d been sleeping in his bed, by leaning over and peering at him with an exhausted, irritated, and yet intrigued expression on his face. 

(“Eeyar,” he’d said mildly, and Calum’s eyes had flown open as he’d shot bolt upright in the bed. “That’s my fucking bed, that is.” Calum had just stared at him, lips parted in shock, eyes wide, still too groggy to process that the eyes staring back at him were the exact same eyes as Liam’s, and then Liam had stirred, mumbled something, opened his eyes and grinned wider and happier than Calum had ever seen before. 

“Noely G!” he’d said, all soft and sleepy, and Noel had rolled his eyes and huffed, but his lips had twitched in a tiny, fond smile. 

“Don’t you fucking call me that,” Noel had warned, two seconds before Liam had flung himself into Noel’s arms and they’d both toppled to the ground, Liam laughing and Noel grumbling but reaching up to pet Liam’s hair all the same.) 

Noel hadn’t wanted to spend much time with them, at first.  _ Why the fuck would I want to hang out with my eighteen-year-old brother and his weird fucking Aussie mate? _ he’d say derisively, scoffing, but Liam always knew how to play him, knew how to wheedle and whine and praise and insult at  _ just _ the right levels until Noel would break, sigh, put his magazine down and pick up his guitar and play with them.

That had been it, really. Calum couldn’t remember ever having that much fun before, ever feeling so at home before, ever feeling so  _ safe.  _ The three of them had just clicked, just fallen right into a routine like they were made to slot into each other’s lives. Noel and Liam felt like jigsaw pieces that nestled neatly against him, completed parts of him that he didn’t even know were incomplete. Calum and Liam were rarely apart, and Noel dipped his toe in more often than he took it out. It was Calum Liam would turn to when he was having nightmares about his dad, or when Noel had fucking breathed wrong, or when Noel had decided to move out and Liam had been so furious at him that he’d sat sobbing on Calum’s floor for a whole night. It was Calum Noel would turn to when Liam threw a tantrum, or when he wanted a hand moving furniture into his new flat, or when he wanted someone to go for a few pints with. 

And so it should have been the two of them Calum turned to when he found out about Michael. 

It’s not like they don’t know about his bisexuality, either. He’d come out to Liam before he’d even come out to his mum, blurting it one evening when they were headed to the pub, and Liam had just shrugged, put an arm around him and said  _ hard not to fancy blokes when you spend a lot of time around me, eh?  _

Noel had been a little different. Noel had sent him looks from under lowered lashes that had made Calum’s stomach fizz in a way he’d never quite felt before, an echo of something he’d only ever felt with Michael. Noel’s hand would linger on the small of Calum’s back, or around his waist, or on his forearm, making Calum’s skin buzz with something he’d never quite been able to place. It had culminated in one night when Liam was at some girl’s house and Calum had spent the night at the Gallaghers’ anyway, listening to the new songs Noel had written for their brand new band, singing soft and sweet and clear with plump lips and darkened eyes until one of them had snapped. Calum could never remember whether it was him or Noel that had lunged forward first, pressed the first desperate kiss to the other’s lips, but it didn’t really matter, because the end result was the same; frantic kisses, fumbling hands, and pretty,  _ really _ fucking pretty sounds from Noel that made Calum dizzy with want and made him think  _ God, this is what fucking music is.  _

And so, Calum thinks, as his chest aches uncomfortably from the guilt pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart, he has to tell them the  _ whole  _ truth. They’ve been everything to him for the past four, five years, and they deserve to know.

“Well?” someone prompts - Noel, Calum realises as he’s jolted out of his racing thoughts - and Calum swallows. 

“He’s my ex,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. 

The words sit between all of them for a moment, nudging at them, testing their boundaries, pushing at the thin lines tying the five of them together, before Tony frowns, like he’s not getting it. 

“Your  _ ex? _ ” he says, a little sceptical, like Calum’s having him on, and oh, yeah,  _ shit _ . Tony doesn’t actually know Calum’s into guys. Fucking hell. This is the  _ last _ way he wanted to come out to him. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. He’s not sure how to elaborate on that,  so he doesn’t. Tony just frowns, like he’s still not sure whether to believe Calum, but doesn’t say anything else. 

“When?” Noel says, and there’s an edge of something to his tone that Calum can’t quite place. 

“Before I left,” Calum says, which is the best answer he can come up with. They’d never quite started anything, never quite stopped it either. It just was, and then it wasn’t. “We never, like. There wasn’t a conversation, or anything. We just...were. Together, I mean. He was my best mate since I was seven, so.” He shrugs again, terse and awkward. “And then I moved here.” 

“Why the  _ fuck _ didn’t you say?” Liam explodes. 

“Because he’s in fucking Blur!” Calum says. “I didn’t even fucking know until that magazine-”

“ _ That’s _ why you-”

“ _ Yes _ , and-”

“So you’ve known for, what,  _ three fucking mo- _ ”

“Hang on,” Noel interrupts. “What fucking magazine?” 

“Cunt nicked a magazine from the dentist’s,” Liam says derisively, waving a dismissive hand in Calum’s direction. “Wouldn’t tell me why.” 

“It had a picture of Michael in it,” Calum says. 

“So, what, you nicked it for your wank bank?” Noel says irritably. 

“ _ No, _ ” Calum says emphatically. “Just-” he cuts himself off. He’s not really sure what he was doing with that magazine, really. Taking it had just felt like the natural thing to do.

“I wouldn’t’ve fucking  _ cared _ if you’d said it then,” Liam snaps. “I don’t fucking care that you shagged someone in Blur, how the fuck were you to know? I care that you didn’t fucking tell me.” Calum swallows.

“I know,” he says. “And I’m sorry.” Liam doesn’t say anything to that for a moment, just stares at him, blue eyes wide and angry, and then scoffs and stomps off. Noel throws Calum a look, a look that says  _ you’ve fucked up  _ and  _ I’m fucking furious  _ and a little bit of  _ how fucking dare you upset my brother like that, _ and then takes off after him. Calum watches them go, watches Noel put a hand on Liam’s arm and Liam shake him off angrily, and then Bonehead clears his throat. 

“Well,” he says nonchalantly. “Hope the shag was fucking worth it, mate.” 

\-------

The fallout from the argument is sort of what Calum had expected, and sort of isn’t. 

Bonehead and Tony don’t care all that much, predictably. Bonehead’s more concerned about whether Calum wants tickets to the United Champions League qualifier in August (which of course he fucking doesn’t, meaning Bonehead’s just looking for a way to tell him  _ we’re alright _ without having to say it), and, once it’s been established that yes, Calum  _ does _ actually date blokes, they’re not just having him on, Tony doesn’t see what the big deal is. 

(“Who fucking cares?” he says, sounding bemused. Calum puts his head in his hands. 

“D’you understand either of them at all?” he says into his fingers. 

“No,” Tony says. “Do you?” Calum’s silent for a moment.

“Fair point.”)

Liam snaps at Calum for a day or two, throws furious looks at him and tries to goad him into fights, but he’d been more upset when Calum had lost his favourite earring a few years ago, so Calum just waits it out. When Liam stops scoffing at every suggestion Calum makes about the Glastonbury setlist, stops making loud, derisive remarks whenever Calum enters or leaves a room, Calum takes it as his cue to sneak up behind him and wrap his arms around Liam, rest his chin on Liam’s shoulder and whisper  _ don’t fucking knock my teeth out, alright? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. You’re my best mate, and I should’ve said.  _ _ Didn’t mean to make you feel like I don’t care about you. I love you, and I need you.  _ Liam’s over it in a flash after that, tilting his head to the side to send Calum a brilliant grin and pressing a quick kiss to Calum’s temple. Liam’s like that, Calum thinks, laughing and ducking from Liam’s attempts to keep pressing sloppy kisses all over his face. He’ll blow up, he’ll scream and shout and burn hot with anger for a few days, and then the fever breaks, and Liam can barely remember why he was so pissed off in the first place. 

Noel, however, is a different story. 

He doesn’t even look in Calum’s direction for three days, which is longer than they’ve ever argued, even when Calum had kissed Noel’s girlfriend last year. Which, in fairness, wouldn’t have happened if Noel had been a bit more forthcoming about exactly  _ which  _ ‘fucking gorgeous blonde girl’ was his girlfriend, but whatever. The point is Calum’s not used to this kind of animosity from Noel, and especially isn’t used to Noel harbouring resentment against him for this long, and to the fucking  _ coldness _ of it. He’s used to Noel snapping, making snide comments, laughing loudly and spitefully when Calum fucks up, not this frostiness, this icing out. 

Rehearsals are tense and uncomfortable. Bonehead and Tony refuse to take sides between Calum and Noel, which Calum had expected - he refuses to side against either of the Gallaghers if he can ever help it - but  _ Liam _ refuses too, which takes Calum by surprise. 

(“No,” he says sharply, when Calum sends him a look after Noel snaps at him for idly playing a bass riff while he’s waiting for Tony to finish setting his drums up. “You made your fucking bed, Cal.”

It’s true, and it’s fair, but it still feels like a kick in the teeth that Liam’s not taking the opportunity to take Calum’s side, because it means he’s taking Noel’s.) 

After about a week, when the Glastonbury gig is looming over them and Noel still won’t say a single word to Calum besides  _ can you fucking play in time? Is that really so fucking hard?,  _ Calum’s had enough. 

He waits until one rehearsal is over, when Noel’s thrown his hands up in the air and said  _ you’re all fucking shite _ and stalked out of the room - their cue to pack up and go home - shaking his head when Liam slings an arm around his shoulders and asks jovially whether he wants to go to the pub. 

“Nah,” Calum says. “I’m going to try and talk to Noel.” Liam raises an eyebrow, removes his arm from Calum’s shoulders, and pulls a face. 

“On your own head be it,” he says, and jogs off to catch up with Bonehead. 

Calum heads out of the practice room and into the corridor, heading for the room Noel often locks himself away in to write or when he’s had enough of Liam. He can hear strumming from inside, gentle humming accompanying it, and he hesitates for a split second, letting the unguarded Noel that no one ever sees wash over him for a moment. The only thing besides Liam that can break any of Noel's barriers down is a guitar, which is why Noel locks himself away when he's writing, can't stand to let anybody see him without twelve layers of defences up. It feels like Calum's intruding, though, standing here listening to Noel be at peace when he's always so turbulent, so he raises his hand and knocks on the door.  The humming and strumming stop abruptly, and an annoyed voice calls: “What?”

“Can I come in?” Calum says. There’s a pause. 

“No.” But there was a pause, and if Calum obeyed every single one of Noel's impulsive commands he’d be riddled with more inconsistencies than the fucking Bible, so he pushes the door open anyway. 

“What d’you want?” Noel says irritably, but it’s the first thing he’s said to Calum that isn’t  _ shut the fuck up _ in about two days, which is a start. Calum steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, and Noel sighs, all long-suffering, and turns back to his guitar, plucking a few strings tunelessly. 

“Can we talk?” Calum says. 

“Yeah,” Noel says. “Fuck off. Talk over.” Calum bites back a snarky retort and sits down on the chair opposite Noel. 

“Look,” he begins, and Noel holds up a hand to stop him. 

“I don’t want to have a big fucking talk about our feelings,” he says curtly. Calum sighs. 

“How the fuck do I make it better, then?” he says. Noel shrugs, tight and tense. 

“Time travel,” he suggests, and Calum’s lips twitch in spite of himself. 

“I said I was sorry,” he says, because he did. He’s said it a hundred times, a hundred ways, through apologies and through beseeching looks and through leaving Noel the last custard cream. 

“What’ve you been apologising for, though?” Noel says shrewdly. “For the fact you did it, or the fact we found out?” Calum holds his gaze, feels the blue burn hot into his brown, like Noel’s trying to tease out the worst bits of Calum’s soul. 

“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” Calum says plainly. Noel blinks, a fleeting look of surprise passing across his face. He wasn’t expecting that, clearly. 

“Who said that?” he says, aiming for contemptuous and coming off defensive. Calum just fixes him with a hard stare, one that says  _ it’s written all over your face, and I’ll fucking say it out loud if you want me to.  _ Noel blinks back at him for a moment before looking away, pursing his lips. He’s considering his options; Calum can see it in the way his eyes narrow slightly. Calum hopes Noel can't come up with any more options than Calum can - keep stewing or forgive but don't forget are all Calum's got, so there's a fifty-fifty chance he'll get what he's looking for.

“Fucking fine,” Noel mutters eventually, and Calum’s eyes flutter shut in relief, the pressure that’s been weighing on his chest for the past week suddenly disappearing. Fuck. “You’re still a cunt, though,” Noel adds, because he can’t stand not having the last word, and Calum nods, leaning back in the chair. He can live with that. 

“What’s that?” Calum says, nodding at the guitar to indicate the song Noel had been playing, testing the waters. Is this a truce, or is it forgiveness? 

“That?” Noel says, looking down at the guitar. “Just playing around.” A truce, then. For now. 

“For the next album?” Noel shrugs. 

“Maybe,” he says. “Depends. Got a lot of other fucking brilliant songs already written for it.” Calum huffs out a laugh, rolls his eyes, and Noel smiles back. 

“You sorted out the Glastonbury setlist yet?” Calum asks. The smile slips off Noel’s face. 

“Yeah,” he says. Calum cocks his head. 

“What?” 

“What?” 

“You look all fucking mardy, is what.” Noel rolls his eyes. 

“Mardy, fucking hell,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re a right fucking Manny boy now, you are.” 

“Nah,” Calum says, grinning. “Fucking true blue, I am. Why d’you think I support City over United?” 

“‘Cause Liam would’ve fucking nailed your balls to the front door if you hadn’t,” Noel says, which is, in fairness, at least half of the reason Calum had decided on City. 

“He hasn’t nailed Bonehead’s to any doors yet,” Calum points out. Noel pulls a face. 

"Would you wanna touch Bonehead's balls?" he says, and Calum snorts. He's got a point. 

They lull into silence for a moment, Noel's fingers twitching on the strings of his guitar like he's itching to play but doesn't want to in front of Calum, but he's not told Calum to fuck off yet, which is a start. Calum's going to take every inch Noel gives him, claw as many centimetres out of them as he can, so he sits back a little, eyes Noel and says: "What's the setlist, then?" Noel looks at him, like he thinks Calum’s asking him a trick question. “What?” Calum adds, a little self-consciously. 

“You know Blur are playing the same day as we are?” Noel says, and his tone is flat. “Same stage, too.” Calum’s stomach plummets.

“Oh,” he says, and he can see from the sour look on Noel’s face that he’s not doing a good job of hiding the way his heart is pounding in his chest at the fucking prospect of maybe, just maybe, seeing Michael again. 

“You going to talk to him?” Noel says harshly. Calum hesitates, and then shakes his head. 

“You’re my band,” he says, even though it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “You know where my loyalties lie.” Noel considers him for a moment - a long moment - and then exhales, and smiles. 

That was a test, Calum thinks, as he smiles back. It was a test, and he passed. 

(But his heart might not have.) 

\-------

Glastonbury comes around a lot fucking faster than Calum had expected. 

Noel takes a few days to mull their truce over and then seems to decide that he’s extended it into a full on peace, passing Calum an unfinished song at two in the morning when they’re both high on something Liam had picked up somewhere. Calum doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to break the fragile understanding between the two of them, just pockets the piece of paper and offers Noel a grin and another bottle of beer. 

The days pass in a blur of travelling and rehearsing, and they get a week off between their last show somewhere down south and Glastonbury. Noel’s definition of a week off, though, seems to be very different from everyone else’s. Calum’s looking forward to going home, eating some good food, not being woken up by Liam going for a run at seven every fucking morning, maybe even getting around to fixing that wall, but Noel’s having none of it. 

(“Did you fucking hear us in Glasgow?” Noel demands, when everybody drags themselves into the tiny, cramped practice space in the basement at ten a.m., Liam still absolutely fucking steaming and clearly not having got round to going to bed yet. 

“We sounded fucking fine,” Bonehead says. 

“We sounded fucking shite,” Noel corrects. 

“Speak for your fucking self,” Tony says, and the rest of them round on him in disbelief. 

“Hang on a minute-” Bonehead starts. 

“Eeyar,  _ I  _ sound shi-” Noel says indignantly.

“That’s a bit fucking rich-” Calum begins. 

“You’re the worst fucking drummer I’ve ever heard,” Liam says, grumpy and disdainful, which about sums it up.) 

Calum’s sort of glad, though, because it keeps him busy. In the little moments he does get to himself - half an hour between dinner and Liam ringing his house and demanding he comes down to the pub with him, twenty minutes when Noel’s on the phone arguing with Marcus at the record label about Live Forever again - all he can think of is Michael. 

It gets worse the closer they get to Glastonbury. The first few days, when Glastonbury’s still about a week away and still doesn’t quite feel real, he can push Michael out of his mind, distract himself with laughing at Liam telling some story about Noel pushing him in the road when they were kids,  _ ‘cause he knew I was gonna be fitter than him, I reckon. _ Michael crosses his mind, but it’s fleeting, and Calum doesn’t dwell on him. By the fourth or fifth day, though, Glastonbury’s looming over them and they’re being told every three seconds not to be late for the fucking bus, bus call’s at fucking six, did you hear me, that’s  _ six, _ and William fucking Gallagher if you’re a  _ second _ late I’ll give Noel special dispensation to murder you. It starts sinking in then, in brief moments of panic where Calum realises that fuck, in forty-eight hours, in thirty-six hours, in twenty-four hours, he might see Michael again. 

A million different scenarios cross his mind. Michael screaming at him, Calum screaming back; Michael kissing him, Calum kissing back; Michael walking past and not even looking at him, and Calum’s heart breaking. He’s glad for it when Noel rings and asks him to make sure Liam gets to the bus call on time, because fussing over Liam gives him something else to focus all of his nervous energy on. 

They drive through the night, and Calum doesn’t sleep. The rest of them don’t either, though, drinking and smoking (except Liam, on Noel’s orders, and much to his chagrin) and snorting what Liam claims is coke but Noel’s pretty sure is just crushed caffeine pills. By the time they’re all coming down from their wired highs, around four or five in the morning, Calum’s so exhausted that he slips into an easy, dreamless sleep, and it feels like no time has passed at all before he’s been shaken awake gently, blinking up at solemn blue eyes. 

“Soundcheck,” is all Liam says, not looking tired or hungover in the fucking slightest. Calum groans, mouth dry and throat scratchy, and struggles into a seated position to find Liam’s got a cup of water and two paracetamols in his hand. 

“I fucking love you,” Calum says hoarsely, and Liam laughs as Calum grabs the water and pills. 

“Fucking right,” he says with a grin, and then walks away. 

Calum downs the water and pills, and then hears Bonehead shout for him and yells back  _ I’m coming, I’m coming, _ rolling out of bed and pulling on the first clothes he sees. By the time he’s made his way into the lounge area, rubbing at his eyes blearily and sending up prayers to various gods that the paracetamol kicks in  _ quickly,  _ everyone’s ready to go. It’s probably for the best that Calum doesn’t have time to eat breakfast; his stomach’s flipping like crazy, and Liam’s far too fucking buzzing to stay in the bus a minute longer, hopping from foot to foot with that kind of childlike energy that he’s always inexplicably got, counterbalancing Noel’s stiff, tense posture. 

“Are we doing Walrus?” Liam asks, as they file off the bus and are led in the direction of a tiny room.

“Did you read the fucking setlist?” Noel snaps. 

“You changed it seven fucking times,” Liam shoots back. 

“I fucking showed you the final one this morning,” Noel says. 

“Oh, fuck off,” Liam says, rolling his eyes. “What’s all this, then?” Their instruments are set out, mic stands and all, and three techs are hovering by the amps. 

“Quick soundcheck,” one of them explains. “Don’t have time to do a full one for every artist. Just need to see how you want it, then we can set it up on stage when you’re on.” Liam stares at her in disbelief, and then shakes his head and turns to head out of the room. 

“Eeyar,” Noel says sharply, catching him by the elbow. “Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?” 

“What the fuck is this?” Liam demands, gesturing at the whole setup. 

“What, you thought we’d have a full fucking half hour soundcheck?” Noel says. “It’s a fucking festival, Liam.” Liam stares at him for a minute, because he clearly  _ had _ thought they were going to have a full soundcheck, and then shakes Noel off and walks back out the way they’d come in. 

“Uh-” one of the techs says, but Noel sighs, loud and exasperated, and turns back to them with a shake of his head. 

“Fucking let him go,” he says contemptuously. “He’s just the fucking tambourine player.” 

The soundcheck only lasts ten minutes, and Noel insists that he’ll sort his own amps out anyway, because he’s a fucking control freak, and then they’re told to fuck off and come back at five. 

“Well,” Bonehead says, as they file out of the room. “I’m going back to sleep.” Without waiting for any of them to say anything, he turns on his heel and heads straight back in the direction of the bus.

“The Inspirals are playing today,” Noel says, already looking over Tony’s head and craning around Calum to see if he can spot them anywhere. “Gonna see if I can find them.” 

“Think I’m going to get a drink,” Tony says, and Calum sighs, because that leaves him with the job of finding Liam. 

“Fine, fuck you both,” he says, and receives a middle finger and a two-fingered salute for his trouble. 

He heads halfway with Noel, who peels off abruptly because  _ that’s fucking Johnny Cash, that is, I’m fucking watching that, fuck the Inspirals, _ and then gets lost on the other half of the way because there are people in black running back and forth and shouting at each other and Calum keeps following them thinking they know where they're going only to end up at a portaloo. 

The artists’ area is just a small tent selling incredibly overpriced beer, but Calum buys one anyway, because the paracetamol’s only half-dulled his headache and Calum’s a big believer in hair of the dog. He sips it as he wanders, eyes flitting left to right to try and spot a loud Mancunian in an oversized jumper. He can’t seem to find Liam, but sees two of the blokes from Radiohead in the distance, one of whom raises a hand at him a little hesitantly. Calum raises his beer in return, because it feels like the polite thing to do, and the guy seems to waver for a moment before heading over, and Calum groans internally. Fucking hell. Maybe Noel and Liam have the right idea, being absolute cunts to everybody in the business. 

“Calum, right?” the guy says when he gets close, and bloody hell, he’s even fucking shorter than Noel. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. 

“Thom,” the guy says, holding his hand out. Calum stares at it for a moment, trying to process  _ is this twenty-something musician trying to shake my hand like we’re fucking businessmen, _ and Thom retracts it, a little awkwardly. 

“You’re from Radiohead,” Calum says, more of a statement than a question. 

“Yeah,” Thom says. 

“Creep’s a good song,” Calum says, taking a sip from his beer. Thom cocks his head, like he’s trying to work out if Calum’s taking the piss. 

“Thanks,” he says eventually, a little suspiciously. It’s fair enough, Calum thinks, when he remembers the last time they’d crossed paths; a few weeks ago, Calum cackling as Noel and Liam screamed  _ but I’m a cock, I’m a willy _ as Radiohead traipsed onto the stage to collect their award. It is a good song, though, although Calum sort of prefers the Gallagher version. 

“You seen my singer, by any chance?” Calum says, figuring it can’t hurt to ask. “‘Bout this tall, mouthy northern lad. Probably getting into a fistfight, or something.” 

“Liam,” Thom says, and really, Calum should have known Thom knew who Liam was. Who the fuck doesn’t know Liam Gallagher? 

“Yeah,” Calum says, “him.” Thom nods.

“Yeah, saw him about ten minutes ago,” he says. 

“Where?” Thom turns, points in the vague direction of a tent in the distance. 

“He was having a go at the barman for the price of the beers,” Thom says, and Calum snorts. 

“Sounds like fucking Liam,” he says, and can’t help the fondness that edges his tone. Thom grins at him, like he's finally finding his footing. 

"They're almost three quid," he says. "It's daylight fucking robbery."

“Fucking festivals,” Calum says, a little derisively, and takes another sip from his extortionately-priced beer. 

“Fucking festivals,” Thom agrees. “Anyway, I’m on in a few, so I’d best get off.”

“I’d better go and save the rest of Glastonbury from Liam,” Calum says. Thom nods, and takes a step back. 

“Oh, by the way,” he adds, as Calum turns to head in the direction of the tent Thom had pointed out. “One of the guys from Blur was looking for you.” Calum’s stomach drops.

“What?” he says, a little too quickly, spinning back around. “Who?” Thom shrugs. 

“Blonde one,” he says. “Don’t know their names.” 

Oh, shit. 

_ Shit. _

“Cheers,” Calum says, glad for how steady it comes out, and jogs off in the direction of the tent Liam was supposedly last seen in, stomach churning. 

Out of all the fantasies he’s had about this day, about seeing Michael somehow, none of them had involved Michael seeking  _ him _ out. It had all been chance encounters, Michael watching the Oasis set or Calum watching the Blur set, or bumping into each other backstage, or seeing each other across the small stretch of grass outside the artists’ tent. He’d never stopped to think that maybe Michael would  _ want _ to speak to him, not after how he’d acted at the awards ceremony. 

“Cal!” he hears, and he whips around with a racing heart, thinking that for a moment it was Michael, the easy way the nickname would drip off Michael’s tongue, but when he turns, he sees Liam, grinning widely, holding up a can of beer that he’s clearly nicked off the tour bus and making his way over to Calum. 

“You’re fucking drunk,” Calum states, when Liam gets within four feet of him. Liam raises an eyebrow, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, and nods. 

“Yep,” he says happily. “How was soundcheck?” 

“Noel’s not happy with you,” Calum informs him, and Liam shrugs. 

“When the fuck is he?” he says carelessly. "I'm arsed. The tit doesn't want anyone to have any fucking fun."  Calum just sighs and shakes his head, palms still slick with sweat, eyes flitting over Liam’s head every three seconds just in case Michael’s magically appeared behind him. Liam’s not as drunk as he smells, though, because he catches it, twisting around to look at what’s caught Calum’s attention. 

“What?” he says, when he’s confronted with absolutely nothing. 

“What?” Calum says, defensive and deflecting. Liam turns back to him, both eyebrows raised now. 

“You looking for Mike?” Liam says, a little too knowingly. 

“Michael,” Calum corrects, without thinking. 

“Well, the Blur lot call him Mike,” Liam says. 

“He hates being called Mike,” Calum mutters. 

“Well,” Liam says, with a nonchalant shrug, "not anymore." There's no malice behind the words but they still hurt, because it reminds Calum that he doesn’t know Michael anymore, doesn’t know _Mike._

“Thom from Radiohead said he was looking for me,” Calum says, and he watches Liam’s eyebrows disappear back under his sunglasses, his lips twisting in a frown. 

“You told our kid you wouldn’t talk to him,” he says, and it comes out a little petulant. 

“I haven’t,” Calum says, and hopes Liam doesn’t catch the evasiveness in his tone. Technically, if Michael talks to  _ him, _ he’s not lying. 

“Good,” Liam says, and then grins brightly. “Want to go and laugh at Radiohead?” 

“Are they on?” Liam shrugs. 

“Think so. Heard some whiny shite out there, ‘s gotta be them, innit?” Calum snorts, and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, go on then,” he says, and Liam’s grin widens. “Anything to make you smile.” 

“Soppy cunt,” Liam says, but his eyes are soft and fond, and Calum laughs as he follows him in the direction of the stages. 

Anything to get Michael off his mind, too. 

\-------

Noel’s still furious at Liam by the time their set rolls around, and Liam plays into it, refusing to sing the second verse of Fade Away and demanding they shuffle the setlist to play Supersonic first. He cackles when Noel glares at him, grins gleefully when Noel shouts a string of curse words and stomps off, and takes an idle sip from his beer with twinkling eyes when both Bonehead and Calum throw him exasperated looks before following after Noel with ten minutes to go until they’re on stage. 

They manage to convince Noel to come back - or at least to make him feel like coming back is something they’re begging him to do rather than something he was going to do anyway, because Noel always loves feeling like he’s doing them a fucking favour. He kicks Liam in the shin when he passes him on his way to the stairs leading to the stage, hard, and Liam scowls and hurls his almost-empty can of beer at him, missing by a few inches and hitting Tony instead. 

The set passes in a fucking blur. The crowd actually cheer them onto the stage, which makes Calum’s stomach twist and attempt to make its way up his oesophagus in a way that’s strangely pleasant. Liam sings his fucking heart out, looking lazy and bored and effortless, but Calum can see the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers are clenched around his stupid fucking tambourine. They sound fucking good, they all know they do, and when Noel and Calum both head for the beers at the back of the stage at the same time they share a quick smile, a  _ fuck, can you believe this is real? _ smile. 

Calum tries not to scan the crowd for Michael, he really fucking does, but he can’t help himself, and he also can’t help the little pang of disappointment when he can’t spot Michael’s telltale unruly blonde hair anywhere. It’s probably for the best, he tells himself, looking back down at his bass and really focusing on the song. He probably wouldn’t be able to concentrate if Michael were there. 

Noel’s on a fucking high when they get off, kisses Bonehead square on the lips and pulls Liam into a fond headlock, rubbing his knuckles across the top of Liam’s sweaty head as Liam protests but doesn’t try to pull away. 

“That was fucking  _ mega, _ ” he says, grinning widely as he releases Liam, who stands up straight and shakes his hair out. 

“Fucking was, and all,” Liam says proudly, slinging an arm over Noel’s shoulders. “Me and me little brother-” 

“Eeyar, watch it,” Noel says, but he’s still grinning. 

“-playing fucking Glastonbury,” Liam finishes. “Fucking hell. Wonder if Mam was watching.” 

“‘Course she fucking was,” Noel says, a note of reassurance in his voice. “Wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see her most handsome son play fucking Glastonbury, would she, eh? And you, I s’pose.” He ducks out of Liam’s arm as Liam makes a noise of outrage and lunges for him, laughing, but Liam’s laughing too, chasing after Noel as he skips out of Liam’s reach, and the two of them start shrieking like fucking madmen and tear off in the direction of the artists’ tent, earning themselves strange looks from everyone they pass. Tony, Bonehead and Calum watch them as they disappear into the distance for a moment, each of them thinking the same thing - who, how, and what the fuck are the Gallagher brothers? 

“I reckon if I ever understand those two I’d deserve a fucking Nobel prize,” Bonehead comments, and Calum and Tony both murmur their agreement. 

Tony’s mate’s is in some band playing on the fucking Jazz World Stage, of all things, so he says he’s going to go and see if he can catch the tail end of their set. Calum tells him it’s a good fucking thing he kept that to himself until after the brothers had left, because he wouldn’t hear the end of it otherwise, and Bonehead grins and says _gives me the pleasure of telling them, too._ Tony just flips them both off as he walks away, and they return the favour.  __

“I’m fucking rank,” Bonehead says, not sounding all too unhappy about it, as they approach the tent. 

“You are,” Calum agrees, and ducks the inevitable swat Bonehead aims at the back of his head. 

“You’re not all fucking roses yourself,” Bonehead tells him, and Calum shrugs. He can live with that. 

“I’ll shower later,” he says. 

“You fucking will,” Bonehead says. “Not fucking getting on a bus with you smelling like that.” Calum scowls, because he knows he doesn’t smell that bad, and Bonehead throws him a winning smile as he ducks into the tent ahead of Calum. 

Liam and Noel are at the bar, shouting loudly at the bartender and each other and anyone who comes within three feet of them, and Calum decides to steer well clear of that and head out of the back of the tent to the little stretch of grass. 

“I fancy a beer,” Bonehead says, already halfway to the bar, and Calum shrugs - clearly Bonehead’s not seen the fucking prices - and steps out on his own. 

There are a few people milling around, a few people Calum thinks he might have seen at afterparties and a few people that are clearly hangers-on, and he heads for an empty spot by the fence in the corner, not wanting to go through a conversation with any of these people. He digs around in his pocket for a cigarette and puts it to his lips, cupping his left hand around it as he fumbles with his lighter in his right, and his eyes flutter shut as he inhales the first delicious drag and holds it in. 

“They’ll kill you, y’know,” a low voice says, and Calum’s eyes fly open as he chokes on the smoke currently in his lungs. 

A blonde, Thom had said. A blonde from Blur. 

Not Michael. 

Damon. 

“Gotta die of something,” Calum says, when he recovers, noting the amused expression on Damon’s face. 

“Good for the nerves, too,” Damon agrees, and brings his own cigarette to his lips. Fucking hypocrite. 

“What d’you want?” Calum says. Damon takes a long drag of the cigarette, eyeing Calum shrewdly. Calum’s had enough of shrewd blue eyes, fucking hell. 

“To talk about Mike,” Damon says eventually, and tilts his head up to exhale a cloud of grey smoke. Calum watches it swirl for a minute, separating into wisps that the wind catches and carries away from them. 

“What about him?” 

“What happened with the two of you?” Damon sounds curious. Calum shrugs jerkily. 

“Shouldn’t you be asking him that?” he fires back. 

“I did.” 

“So what are you here for?” 

“Your side of it.” 

“What the fuck d’you want that for?” Damon shrugs, and takes another drag of his cigarette. It reminds Calum of his own, burning right down to the filter in his hand, and he brings it to his lips. Damon has a point about it being good for the nerves. 

“I care about him,” Damon says simply, after a moment. He doesn’t add anything else, but the threat is clear:  _ if you’ve fucked with him, or if you ever fuck with him again, I’ll fucking kill you. _ Calum would like to see him try, because he’d have to get past both Noel and Liam first.

“Well, whatever the fuck he told you is probably true,” Calum mutters. Damon cocks his head. 

“You dated?” Calum tries not to squirm. 

“Yeah.” 

“You fell in love?” 

“Guess so.” 

“You dropped him the minute you moved to the UK?” Calum’s head whips around to face Damon. What the fuck has Michael been saying? That's not true, not really. He'd kept sending letters for a year and a half, or so, hadn't he? What was he supposed to do when Michael stopped writing as often? 

“Not exactly,” he says, and Damon raises an eyebrow. 

“You didn’t start ignoring his letters?” he questions. 

“Well, yeah, but he stopped sending as many,” Calum says. Damon’s eyebrows stay raised, and his lips quirk up in a small, almost sad smile. 

“You don’t see a correlation there?” he says. Calum shrugs, and takes another drag from his cigarette before dropping it to the ground and grinding it out with his shoe. 

“He never told me he was coming here,” he says. “Never told me he was in Blur, either. Way I see it, we’re even.” They’re not even, they’ll never be fucking even, but he’s not going to tell  _ Damon _ that. 

He starts heading back in the direction of the tent, intending to go straight to Noel and tell him Damon’s just tried to get in his head about Michael, but Damon catches his arm as he steps away. Calum turns back around and yanks his arm out of Damon’s grasp with a scowl.

“How long have you known?” Damon asks. 

“What?” Calum says irritably. 

“About Mike. How long have you known?” Calum stares at him. 

“How long has  _ he _ known?” he asks. 

“A year,” Damon says, and Calum’s heart clenches. Michael’s known Calum’s in Oasis for a fucking  _ year, _ and never once tried to reach out. 

“Well?” Damon prompts, and Calum clenches his teeth.

“Three months,” he says shortly, and then turns on his heel and heads in the direction of the artists’ tent before Damon can say anything else, heart in his fucking mouth. 

A year. A fucking year. Michael’s known what Calum’s been up to, known about him and his band, probably even known where he’s been on the odd occasion for a fucking  _ year,  _ and he’s never said anything, never even mentioned it to his own bandmates until his arm was twisted. 

Well, Calum thinks bitterly, as he ducks into the tent to see Noel, Liam and Bonehead all laughing and grinning at the bar. At least he knows where he stands with Michael, then. And at least he’s somewhere with Liam’s drugs and overpriced booze to drown his sorrows. 

\-------

A few hours later, a little high and a lot stoned and even more drunk, Calum’s wandering around outside when Liam catches him, slips an arm around his waist and pulls him in for a warm, sweaty hug. 

“Want to go and heckle Blur?” he asks, grinning into Calum’s shoulder, sunglasses pressing uncomfortably into Calum’s collarbone, and Calum’s heart skips a beat. 

“Are they playing?” Liam pulls back and nods, and Calum shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. 

“Sure,” he says, wishing Liam would take the sunglasses off so Calum can see what he’s thinking. Liam doesn’t, just grabs Calum by the arm and starts steering him in the direction of the stage they’d played all of six hours ago. 

They pass by one of the other stages, a smaller one, where what sounds like a country duo are playing, deep voices booming while middle-aged men tap their feet thoughtfully to the acoustic guitars, and then the sound of guitars and a faux-Cockney accent start to drown them out. They turn the corner and then they’re there, squinting at the tiny pinpricks on the stage about a fucking mile in front of them. 

“Fucking hell,” Liam complains. “Can’t even fucking see the pricks.” Without waiting for a response from Calum, he starts shoving through the crowd, shouting _watch my fucking beer_ at anyone who jostles back against him, and Calum follows close behind before the crowd can close around the path he’s created again, until they’re about five rows from the stage. Calum’s been so focused on his feet the whole time, not wanting to trip up and spill the the fucking £2.50 beer that he’d shelled out on, that he’s not actually looked up, and when he does he’s startled by how close they actually are, by the fact that he can see the beads of sweat on Damon’s throat, the vein on his neck as he sings. 

Calum’s eyes, like they’re magnets and Michael’s fucking north, immediately find Michael, who’s staring down at his guitar and nodding along to the song - something about there being no other way, if Calum’s making out the lyrics blasting out from the speakers correctly. It’s sort of catchy, but they’ve come in towards the end and it’s winding down, and it’s only about twenty seconds before the final chord rings out and Damon stands back, breathing heavily. 

“Is there anyone who’s French out there?” he asks, as the other guitarist - Graham, Calum thinks idly, as some of the crowd cheer - plucks out a few random notes. 

“Really?” Damon says, sounding surprised. “How many, put your hands up, let’s have a look.” He pauses. “How many Germans? Oh, that’s too many French. I don’t believe you.” He pulls the mic off the mic stand and looks down at his feet. “Okay, well. This is for you. Mon amis.” 

A synth and drums start up, something slower than the last song, and Graham and Michael start playing chords on an offbeat and an on-beat. Calum watches Michael, bathed in the soft disco-ball light they’ve got going on at the moment, fingers moving lazily across the fretboard, and his heart aches. He remembers Michael struggling to switch from a C to a G back in the music room at school, remembers how he had to show Michael where to place his fingers for an E at least six times before he got it, and now Michael’s here, playing the fucking NME stage at Glastonbury like it’s nothing. 

He’s not even listening to what Damon’s singing, too focused on the little crease between Michael’s brows as he nods along to the song, until Michael looks up for the first time, and looks straight at Calum. 

Calum knows Michael’s looking at him, no one else, from the way he freezes, by the way his shoulders tense and his eyes widen and his lips part a little. It’d be easy for him to pretend that he hasn’t seen him, for him to look away and scan the rest of the crowd, but he doesn’t. His eyes stay fixed on Calum, half in shock, half in something that looks like grim determination, Damon’s voice providing the soundtrack to accompany Calum’s racing heart. 

“Well, you and I, collapsed in love,” Damon sings. “And it looks like we might have made it; yes, it looks like we made it to the end.” 

Calum’s stomach drops. 

That’s about him. He knows it is, can’t put his finger on why but he  _ knows _ it, and he knows when Michael sees that Calum’s realised it because he blinks, slow and sad, but doesn’t stop looking at Calum. 

“What happened to us?” Damon asks, but it’s Michael’s words. “Soon it will be gone forever.” Calum can’t make out the next two lines, but it doesn’t matter, because he can see Michael swallow, can see the way his left hand is clenching the fretboard far too tightly, and knows it’s because of  _ him.  _

“Well, you and I, collapsed in love,” Damon repeats, and the crowd sings along with him, and Calum’s heart feels like it’s going to splinter when Michael shifts a little, takes a step to the left, but his eyes don’t leave Calum’s.  _ This is for you, _ he’s saying.  _ This is for us. _

Some kind of string instrument is playing in the background, and Damon sits himself down at a piano and plays something that Calum can’t even make out, and Calum can tell the song’s coming to an end but he doesn’t want it to, doesn’t want the moment to be broken. Damon stands back up again, grabs the mic, and heads back to the front of the stage, pulling on the wire so he doesn’t trip over it. 

“Well, you and I,” he sings again. “Collapsed in love. And it looks like we might have made it; yes it looks like we made it to the end.” He lingers on the final note, and the strings swell, and Calum knows he’s only got a few seconds of Michael left, of having Michael to himself in front of thousands and thousands of people. He blinks up at him, wonders whether Michael can see whatever tangled web of emotions he’s feeling reflected in his eyes - regret, maybe, grief, definitely, yearning, possibly. 

Michael’s still playing, those off- and on-beat chords, and the dim lights on the stage fade out, leaving Calum to gaze at Michael silhouetted in only the disco-ball lights. He can’t see Michael’s face anymore but can still feel Michael’s eyes on him, locked with his own, and just before the song finishes, just as they start to slow down and head into the final bar, a light crosses Michael’s face for the briefest of moments and Michael, eyes on Calum, offers him a tiny, sad smile. 

The song finishes, and the crowd cheer, and Michael takes a few steps back on the stage, bending down to pick something up, and then they’re heading into the next song, an upbeat, guitar-heavy track that has everyone jumping up and down except Calum and Liam. 

“This is fucking shite,” Liam shouts halfway through the song, sounding annoyed, like the fact that Blur’s music isn’t to his taste is a personal attack. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, a little dazed.

“ _ This  _ is our competition?” Liam’s got his arms folded, beer resting on his elbow. “There’s not even a fucking competition. We’re fucking rock ‘n’ roll, we are. What the fuck is this wank?” 

“Dunno,” Calum says. Liam scoffs. 

“Pricks,” he says derisively, and turns to Calum. “‘S not even fucking worth heckling. Let’s just fucking go.” Calum nods numbly, and Liam starts shouldering through the crowd again, shoving two of his fingers up at anyone who dares call him a cunt for doing so. 

A third song’s started by the time they get to the back of the crowd and manage to slip out and get to the path leading back in the direction of the artists’ tent, and Liam scoffs again as he takes a long swig of his beer. 

“ _ Parklife _ ,” he says mockingly, along with the crowd, and shakes his head. “Fucking insulting, that is, that we’re being pitted against them. How the fuck are they rock ‘n’ roll, eh? How the fuck?” Calum just shrugs, scuffing his shoes against the dirt path. 

“What was that with you and Mike, then?” Liam says, almost conversationally, as they turn the corner. Calum’s head shoots up to look at him. 

“What was what?” he says, too quickly, and curses inwardly, because he’s given himself away. 

“That,” Liam says knowingly. “Fucking staring at you for the whole song, he was.” Calum looks back down at his feet, steadfastly counting the number of times his laces criss-cross on his shoes. 

“Damon came and talked to me earlier,” he mutters, because he hasn’t had a chance to tell any of them yet. Or, he has, but drowning his feelings had felt more urgent, and he didn’t want to mention Michael’s name to Noel when he looked to be in such a good mood. 

“What the fuck?” Liam demands. “I’ll fucking deck him, I will.” The ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips. 

“You don’t even know what he said,” he says, but something warm is spreading through his lungs at the fact that Liam’s that willing to defend his honour. 

“Don’t fucking care,” Liam growls. “Been fucking gagging for a chance to deck him. Fucking posh prick.” Well. Maybe defending Calum's honour is at least amongst the reasons for that.

“Just wanted to talk about Michael,” Calum says. 

“Cunt,” Liam says venomously. “Why?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum admits. “Said he wanted to hear my side of the story.”

“What the fuck for?” Liam says. “I don’t fucking care what Mike has to say, do I?” Calum shrugs again. 

“He wanted to know how long I’d known about Michael,” he says. 

“Did he say how long Michael’s known?” Calum hesitates. 

“A year,” he mumbles. 

“A  _ year? _ ” Liam says, sounding outraged. “A fucking year? And he never fucking told them?” Calum shakes his head, and Liam makes a scornful noise. “Fucking wanker.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, trying to quash the guilt that rises in his chest and tells him  _ you might not have told them, either.  _

“Why the fuck was he eyeing you up that whole song, then?” Liam asks. Calum swallows.  _ You know where my loyalties lie, _ he’d told Noel, and he’d meant it. Oasis are his band, Noel and Liam are his best friends, and Michael’s a part of his past. It doesn’t matter that his heart might still be seventeen years old; he’s got to be here, in 1994, not 1989. 

“It’s about me,” he says. Liam stops. 

“What’s about you?” 

“That song. That’s why he was looking at me.” It’s dark, and Calum can’t see Liam all that clearly, but he can make out the way his lips twist in a thin line. 

“How d’you know?” 

“Just do.” 

“Well,” Liam says, slinging an arm around Calum’s shoulders and pulling him in possessively. “You’ve got us. We’re not going to fucking let that bastard do anything to you.” 

Privately, Calum thinks he might actually want Michael to do something to him, but he just forces a smile and wraps an arm around Liam’s waist as they head into the tent for a drink and maybe a few lines. God knows Calum fucking needs it. 

\-------

At about two in the morning, off his head on coke and expensive beer, Liam decides it’d be a  _ great _ idea to insult one of the singers in Chumbawamba, which leads to a scuffle that Liam’s all too happy to get in the middle of and ends up dragging Noel into too, leaving them both with bruises flowering high on their cheeks and tongues probing to make sure they’ve still got all their teeth. Neither of them seem to care that much, though, probably both too fucked to feel it, and Calum watches them get shepherded away to the medical tent by their manager Alan, swaying a little as they go. Bonehead’s long gone, disappeared with some pretty ginger woman on his arm, and Tony still hasn’t come back from his fucking jazz band, so Calum’s left on his own, sipping his beer and trying to make himself as invisible as possible in the corner so that bloody Thom Yorke won’t come and talk to him again. 

He gets through a few more pints, watching the crowd thin as the night wears on, before his bladder starts to kick up a real fuss at the amount of liquid he’s consumed in the past few hours and he slips off to the toilets. 

The door’s locked when he tries it, and he can hear two male voices inside but can’t make out what they’re saying, and decides it’s probably for the best that way. He takes a few steps back, just in case they start fucking or fighting or whatever the fuck it is they’re doing in there, because he doesn’t want to have to listen to that, and rests the back of his head against the wall, taking deep breaths as he realises that shit, he’s a lot fucking drunker than he thought he was. 

He lets his eyes flutter shut as the room starts to swim a little bit, making his stomach roll, and sags back against the wall, focusing on his breathing - seven in, eleven out, Liam always says to Noel when he’s having a bad trip, or maybe it’s eleven in, seven out? Fuck it, he can’t remember, but he’s breathing, and that’s probably what matters. 

He’s so focused on inhaling, exhaling, in, out, that he doesn’t hear someone come up behind him until they make a small noise of surprise, a tiny gasp, that makes him open his eyes. 

It’s Michael. 

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and squeezes his eyes shut again. Maybe Michael will be gone when he re-opens them. M aybe this is just a drug-and-lack-of-sleep-induced hallucination. 

Michael’s not gone when Calum opens his eyes. In fact, he’s a little clearer, not so fuzzy around the edges anymore. He’s standing about two feet away, face set in a mask of shock, staring at Calum like he can’t quite believe he’s there. Even in the dim light of the corridor Calum can make out the new lines on his face, concrete evidence of the years without Calum. He’s lived, breathed, aged without Calum, documented in the crow’s feet at his eyes, the way his laughter lines have deepened, and it makes Calum’s stomach lurch, makes bile rise in his throat to see the irrefutable evidence of a life Michael’s led without him. 

“You look old,” he blurts, without meaning to, and Michael blinks at him. There’s a moment of silence, a moment where Calum’s heart skids to the brink of shattering, thinking  _ fuck, this is it, this is fucking it, _ and then Michael opens his mouth. 

“So do you,” he says, and Calum’s heart shudders to a halt, torn between taking that last step over the edge and giving out altogether. His voice is soft, a little tentative but with an edge of firmness that Calum’s not used to hearing from Michael, the same, familiar Australian accent now a little muted, diluted by southern English. 

They stare at each other for a moment, and Calum blinks hard, trying to focus his eyes and his mind and to wade through the mist of inebriation to find that little part of him that’s sober, the part that’ll tell him how to conduct himself in this first conversation with Michael since 1989 without embarrassing himself. Liam’s weed was a little too strong, though - or maybe it was the coke, because it definitely can’t have been the exorbitantly priced beers - because Calum’s mind stays firmly foggy, no rational thoughts getting through the mist of drugs. Tomorrow, he’ll blame the next words he says on that, he thinks vaguely, as they’re already tumbling off his tongue. 

“You knew,” he says, and it comes out as an accusation. Good, he thinks, a little venomously, a little dazedly. It is an accusation. 

“What?” Michael says, a little defensive. He knows what Calum’s talking about, but he doesn’t want to give it away. Well, Calum thinks spitefully, thank fuck him and his singer aren't on the same page about that.

“You knew,” Calum repeats. He sways a little on the spot, and puts a hand on the wall to steady himself. “Damon said. You knew.” Michael frowns, a little crease between his brows that Calum’s itching to reach up and trace with the pads of his fingers. He clenches his fist against the wall instead, and sees Michael’s eyes flit to it, and then back to his face. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, carefully even. “I knew.” 

“A year.” Calum just wants the confirmation. _Say it,_ he thinks, just in case this brand new Michael’s developed telepathic abilities on top of his confidence and guitar skills. _Say you didn’t want to talk to me._

“Yeah.” Michael says it calmly, coolly, like Calum’s supposed to just take it and feel nothing. Maybe _Michael_ feels nothing, Calum thinks wildly, and the thought almost makes him retch. 

“Why?” 

“Why d’you think?” Michael says. He folds his arms and stares at Calum, more confident than Calum’s ever seen him before, and it makes him feel small, pathetic,  _ drunk. _

“Because I stopped writing.” Michael doesn’t say anything to that, but Calum sees the way his lips twitch in a tiny grimace. 

“Stopped caring about me,” Michael says, and Calum realises it’s supposed to be a correction. 

“No,” he says.

“No?” 

“No.” 

“Did a pretty convincing job of acting like you did.” Michael’s tone is all hard now, diamonds and steel, and it makes Calum flinch a little. Or maybe his words do, Calum’s not quite sure. Or maybe it’s just Michael. 

“Well. Thought I did,” Calum admits, because in fairness, he had. He hadn’t thought about Michael in years, really, had been too busy or too high to let any thoughts of Australia cross his mind, and that had sort of equated to _well, I guess I don't care that much anymore, then._

But the fucking state of him now, and the state of him the past three months, should be all the proof Michael could ever want. 

“Right.” Michael’s not convinced. Calum tries a different tack. 

“Who the fuck is Mike?” he says. It makes sense in his head, he thinks, a little drunkenly.  _ I know you, _ he’s trying to say.  _ Are you still there? _

“I am.” 

“You hate being called Mike.” 

“I’m not seventeen anymore.” Michael holds Calum’s gaze with his own hard stare, face carefully blank and guarded, and Calum feels something simultaneously bitter and delicious unfurling in his stomach. He’s not quite sure what Michael’s trying to say with that - _I’m not yours anymore,_ maybe. Calum’s glad he’s drunk enough to pretend he can’t hear it. 

“Why the fuck were you talking to Damon?” Michael asks after a minute, and his tone is still even and calm but he’s given himself away with the question. He doesn’t want Calum to talk to Damon, and he wants to know what was said, and Calum’s stomach flips as he thinks  _ that’s something. There’s a reason he doesn’t want me to talk to Damon. I've just got to find out what that reason is.  _

“He talked to me,” Calum says. 

“Why?” 

“Ask him.” Michael’s eyes narrow, but Calum doesn't tear his eyes away, brown searching green.  It’s unnerving, he thinks, not to know what’s going on in Michael’s head. It’s unnerving not to know Michael anymore, jars with something deep in his soul, like he should  _ always _ know Michael and it's _wrong_ like this. 

“Your bandmates are cunts,” Michael says, like he’s testing the waters. “The brothers.” 

“Yeah.” Both pride and guilt swell in Calum’s chest - pride, because those are his fucking best friends, and guilt, because he shouldn’t be talking to Michael. _You know where my loyalties lie,_ he’d said. And they _are_ with his band; he hadn’t been lying, but his loyalties are hidden somewhere in the murky depths of regret and love and unfinished business right now.

“You don’t care?” 

“They’re my best friends.” Michael raises an eyebrow. 

“For now.” The implication rings loud and clear between them -  _ yeah, until you drop them, just like you dropped me. _

“I’m not seventeen anymore either,” Calum says.  _ I’m better now. _

“Good.” 

They stand in silence for a moment, and Calum shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to find a position that he doesn’t feel dizzy and light-headed in, but to no avail. 

“You look drunk,” Michael says.    
  
“Thanks,” Calum says, like he doesn’t want to cry. God, he’s too fucking high for this. “I am.” Michael hums, green eyes flitting from Calum’s face to his chest and arms and back again. It’s no different to how girls look at him, how boys look at him - how Noel looks at him, sometimes - but under Michael’s gaze he feels like he’s burning up, like he’s suddenly ten times drunker than he actually is. 

“I liked your set today,” Michael says lowly, like he shouldn’t be saying it. Calum blinks at him. 

“You weren’t there,” he says stupidly. Michael frowns.

“I was,” he says. 

“I didn’t see you,” Calum says, and then feels his eyes widen, because shit. He’s essentially just told Michael he was looking for him. 

“Oh,” Michael says, sounding distant, and Calum thinks he might be sick because Michael  _ knows, _ knows Calum wanted him to be there. Fuck.  _ Fuck. _

He closes his eyes again, breathes in deeply again, tries to focus on something - anything - that isn’t his churning stomach. 

“Are you alright?” Michael asks, sounding a little curious and a little concerned. 

“Yeah,” Calum manages to get out. 

“You look like you’re going to be sick.”

“Might be.” 

“Oh.” 

Calum sinks to the floor, thinking somewhere in the depths of his mind that sitting on the ground and not throwing up on Michael is better than staying standing but throwing up on Michael, and tries to even out his shaky breathing. In, out, Liam always says, in, out. That’s all you need to do. 

“D’you want some water?” he hears, soft and hesitant, and he cracks open one eye to see Michael crouching at eye-level, looking a little worried and a lot pained, like he doesn’t want to be letting his guard down but just can’t help himself. It makes Calum’s stomach flip, but not unpleasantly. It counterbalances the nausea still swirling in his stomach and throat, settles it a little bit. Fucking typical that Michael's both the poison and the antidote.

“D’you have any?” Calum says, and Michael shakes his head. Calum can’t help the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles out of him at that, and he puts his head in his hands. 

“What the fuck is this?” he mutters into his fingers, more to himself than to Michael, but he hears a small sigh from his left and knows Michael’s heard anyway. There’s a rustling sound, and then a thump, and Calum’s eyes fly open to see Michael sat next to him, cross-legged, looking a little sad. 

“Water never helped you anyway,” he says, which isn’t at all an answer to what Calum’s just said, but it is, at the same time. _I remember you,_ is what he’s really saying. _I remember us._ It's a concession, giving Calum something in return for the _I was looking for you_ that his tongue had torn from his heart and offered to Michael. Calum thinks that probably means something, that Michael's admitting he remembers Calum like that, but he's too fucking drunk and high to work it out. 

The words hang between them for a moment, and Calum’s stomach settles a little, and his vision sharpens again. He tries not to think about the fact that Michael's admission is responsible for the fact that he can focus on Michael now, can see every crease in Michael’s brow, every lash on his eyes, every freckle on his skin. 

“You’re still pretty,” Calum says without thinking, and Michael sits back on his heels, huffing out a laugh that sounds a little surprised. 

“Cheers, mate,” he says, tone unreadable, and stands up again. Calum’s eyes follow him as he goes, tilting his head up to keep his gaze trained on Michael, and Michael stares down at him, making Calum’s heart flutter strangely in his chest as a memory of the last time Michael had been staring down at him from that angle flashes in his mind. He can see it cross Michael’s mind too from the way his lips twist a little, but then it’s gone, and he’s just blinking down at Calum, and holding out a hand. 

Calum looks at it for a moment, looks at the soft, pale skin that doesn’t look at all like it belongs to a fucking guitarist, before his brain registers what Michael’s offering and he reaches out himself with cold, clammy fingers, wrapping his hand around Michael’s. Michael pulls and Calum lets himself be pulled, stumbling to his feet and trying his best not to think about the way Michael’s hand feels against his, like it’s fucking made for him. 

Calum sways for a moment, the room spinning, and he lets go of Michael’s hand to steady himself against the wall, blinking like it’s going to clear his vision. After a few deep breaths, though, it slows down, and Calum feels safe enough to chance looking over at Michael again. He’s still looking at Calum, and now that Calum’s feeling less woozy he can see the glaze of alcohol over his eyes, the glassiness of them, and it makes him feel somewhat more secure. Maybe Michael won’t remember this tomorrow, he thinks, pretending not to notice the edge of wild desperation to the thought. 

They stand in awkward silence for a minute, and then Calum can’t take it anymore, bangs on the door of the toilet, because who the  _ fuck _ is spending that long in there? 

“Piss off!” he hears someone - Liam, even his drink-and-drug-addled mind can tell \- yell. “Some of us are taking fucking _drugs_ in here.” 

“Without me?” Calum yells back. 

“Yeah, fuck off,” Liam shouts, but two seconds later the door clicks open and Liam’s face appears, eyes hooded and pupils blown. 

“Thought you were with the paramedics,” Calum says. Liam blinks at him, and then a second face appears, craning to see over Liam’s shoulder. Noel. 

“We were,” Noel says, grinning toothily. “And now we’re not.” Fucking hell, wasn’t Alan supposed to be keeping an eye on them? Maybe they should have hired a teetotal manager. 

“Well, fucking let me piss, then,” Calum says, making for the door, and Liam steps aside obediently but Noel blocks his path. 

“Give us a kiss,” he says. Calum scoffs, trying to disguise the way his heart’s plummeting, because he can see out of the corner of his eye that Michael’s still fucking there, still standing a few feet away, a little in the shadows, sober enough to realise that making the Gallaghers aware of his presence wouldn’t be a good move. 

“Fuck off,” he says, and tries to shoulder past Noel. The bastard’s stronger than he looks, though, one hand on each side of the doorframe to steady himself. 

“I’ll let you in when you give us a kiss,” he says. 

“I’ll fucking piss on you if you don’t let me in,” Calum counters. Noel just cackles. 

“Don’t you want to kiss your favourite bandmate?” he says, eyes glittering with mirth. Calum scowls at him. 

“Liam, give us a kiss,” he calls. Noel laughs again, bright-eyed and happy, and Liam waltzes over to the door, staggering a little, and presses an exaggerated, sloppy kiss to Calum’s lips. 

“Now let him in, eh?” Liam says imperiously, turning to Noel, and Noel rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning as he steps away from the door. Calum almost trips over himself in his haste to get to the urinal, but, even in his desperate and inebriated state, he can’t help shooting one last look over his shoulder at Michael. He still can’t make his face out, can’t see what he’s thinking, but he hopes that maybe Michael can see what’s going through Calum’s head -  _ sorry, sorry, sorry, _ even if Calum’s not quite sure what he’s sorry for; the conversation, kissing Liam, the fact he’s getting to piss and Michael isn’t, or everything else. 

“What’s up with you, then?” Noel asks curiously, as Calum rests his forehead against the cool tiles behind the urinal, exhaling shakily. 

“Just drunk,” Calum mutters, closing his eyes. 

“Drunk?” Noel says, a little incredulously. “Off the fucking water they sell here? You'd need about fifty pints. Must be fucking broke, you.” Calum shrugs. 

“Nah,” he hears Liam say from behind him. “‘S the fucking coke, innit? Told you that was quality, didn’t I?” Noel scoffs.

“You wouldn’t know quality coke if it bit you in the arse,” he says derisively. “You’d snort fucking anything.” 

“Aye,” Liam says, “that’s why I know that was quality, that.” 

Calum’s glad for it when they start bickering, voices rising as they start arguing in earnest, because it covers up his unsteady breathing, the way he’s still having to fight back the urge to retch. 

(Privately, he thinks it was neither the coke nor the beer nor even the weed that did it, but Michael.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is seriously an actual event that occurred in oasis in 1994. they seriously did this. all of this is 100% true except that calum was there this is almost literally how it played out in fact it's actually whatever the opposite of embellished is watered down? this is the watered down version and thats just wild to me i'm not even writing fanfic i'm writing fanfact 
> 
> can you believe i'm somehow slipping FURTHER into my britpop hole? i genuinely did not think it was possible but somehow here we are my thirst for noel gallagher seriously knows no bounds its actually concerning i can't even reveal how much i fancy this man because i will get removed from the country by government agents responsible for stamping out moral corruption. anyway if there are any mcr fans in here why do we call the album three cheers but the era revenge? been thinking about that one for a while don't know what goes on there 
> 
> hows everyone! i'm avoiding starting all the reading for my masters and honestly as we get closer and closer to the time period where i seriously cannot avoid it anymore i think i might be returning to my feral fic writing stage april and may were a fucking time to behold over at softirwin weren't they i have one talent and one talent only and it is procrastinating. actually i have 2 talents the other one is thanking sam at the start of every chapter of this fic sam...do i owe you my life? quite possibly. do what you like with it you are seriously the backbone of this fic imagine reading what is currently 52k of things in bold and 'finishh' every 3 words...a trooper 
> 
> also nobody who knows anything about oasis come for me for putting masterplan lyrics in here...i said we were gonna fuck w the timeline and i stuck to it 
> 
> would this be complete without my cheeky plug? no so come and follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) :)

By the time Calum wakes up the next afternoon, they’re already halfway back to Manchester, somewhere on the M40. Predictably, Liam's up, vibrating with that impatient energy he’s always got when he can’t snort or drink it away, and Calum’s the second one to rise, padding into the lounge area sleepily, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes. His head’s fucking pounding, and his mouth is dry and disgusting, but Liam, because he sometimes is the angel his doe eyes and full lips make him out to be, has already put out a cup of water and two paracetamols for him. 

“How the fuck are you never hungover?” Calum grumbles, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Liam and nestling into his side as he downs the paracetamol. 

“Luck of the Irish,” Liam tells him, resting his cheek on Calum’s head. Calum makes a noise of discontent and turns to press his face into Liam’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s going to stop his head from hurting. 

“You deserve a hangover,” he mumbles. “You were off your fucking head last night.” 

“And you weren’t?” 

“Never said that.” Liam huffs out a soft laugh. 

“Nearly fainted in the fucking toilets, you did.” Calum scowls. 

“Fuck off,” he says, as his memory flashes back to last night - yeah, he did almost fucking faint in the toilets, but that was only because- and then his eyes fly open, because _fuck._ Jesus fucking Christ. 

Michael. 

“Our kid barely even made it back to the bus last night,” Liam says, and it’s just meant to be casual conversation, maybe a little contemptuous, but it makes Calum’s lungs collapse in on themselves with guilt. 

He’d spoken to Michael. He’d come to some sort of a fucking understanding with Michael, something he can’t quite remember and doesn’t quite understand. Fuck, he might have even called Michael _pretty._ Jesus Christ. He’s fairly certain any and all of that goes against his promise to Noel. 

“Oh?” he says, when he remembers to speak. Liam just hums, and Calum tries not to exhale too shakily as his mind races. 

It’s not his fault, he tells himself. Not really. He’d been there first, hadn’t he? Michael had been the one to walk up to him, and the one who hadn’t walked away. And sure, maybe Calum had been the one to strike up conversation, but it hadn’t exactly been friendly, had it? And Michael had been the one to ask questions, to change the topic, and to level the playing field when Calum had accidentally let something slip. Plus, Calum had been drunk and high, so he can’t really be held accountable for his actions, can he? 

Liam’s still talking, but Calum’s not listening, and it doesn’t even matter because Liam cuts himself off when Tony stumbles into the lounge area, bleary-eyed and yawning. There’s no paracetamol set out for him, and Liam makes no move to get any. 

“I’m looking forward to a fucking break,” Tony says a little hoarsely, and flops down on the sofa opposite Liam and Calum. 

“Fucking when?” Liam says. “We’ve got Top of the Pops in two days.” Tony groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Fucking Top of the Pops,” he mumbles. “Why the fuck did we agree to that?” 

“For the money,” Liam says. 

“Don’t even get to play the fucking drums,” Tony says, muffled by his palms. 

“Thank fuck for that,” Liam mutters.

\-------

Top of the Pops is exactly the bland, boring nightmare Calum expects it to be. 

They’re shepherded into some kind of studio for a rehearsal and informed that they’ll be recording a live track then and there which will be mixed together with the album version, and none of them will actually be playing live. Liam’s having absolutely fucking none of it, and for once neither is Noel, and Calum, Bonehead and Tony all decide to step back and enjoy the show that is both Gallaghers on the same team for once. 

After a lot of shouting, swearing and a few threats of violence, it’s decided that they’ll go ahead with recording the backing track but Liam will sing live. Noel’s absolutely fucking furious about not being allowed to play live, but it’s almost entirely forgotten when he sees the setup for the stage - Tony on drums in the front, Calum and Bonehead on a step behind him, and Liam and Noel on another step right at the back. The BBC aren’t budging on that, though, despite Calum, Bonehead, and Alan all weighing in to agree that it’s fucking stupid to have the stars of the band stood right at the back, and a nasty row breaks out between the Gallaghers and the production team, ending in Calum having to move at the speed of fucking light when he sees Liam tense into the all-too-familiar _I’m going to fucking deck you_ stance. A lawsuit with the BBC is still well beyond their budget, no matter how well the singles have been doing. 

Calum manages to talk Liam down, and Liam manages to talk Noel down, and they’re only ten minutes behind schedule by the time that the brothers have reluctantly agreed to do the show, which is pretty good going for them. They trail to the stage to the sound of screaming and cheering, which makes Calum’s head spin a little bit as he picks up his unplugged bass. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks in awe, as he looks out at the sea of excited faces and spots a few white Oasis shirts. They’re really fucking doing this. 

They get set up and pretend to play Shakermaker, and Liam sounds fucking gorgeous, like he’s making a point to the producers, and Noel slings his arm around Liam as they walk off, a protective, proud gesture that Liam grins at and leans into. They’re fucking unstoppable, Calum thinks, as he trails after them, Noel’s arm tight around Liam and Liam stumbling over his own feet as he tries to press as close to Noel as possible. The two of them on the same side is a fucking sight to behold.

They’re at a hotel that night, and Liam and Bonehead decide they want to go out but Tony and Noel want to stay in, and Calum decides he’s too tired to stay up for the length of time it’s going to take him to find someone willing to fuck him. 

(“What d’you think coke’s for?” Liam says to him, and Calum rolls his eyes.) 

Calum falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow, and he wakes up early to the sound of Liam stumbling into the room, high and drunk and probably something else, bruises blooming all over his throat and grinning giddily. 

“Good night?” Calum says. 

“The best,” Liam declares, and then passes out on his bed. 

They have to drive back to Manchester that day, though, because they’ve got a show in Leeds tomorrow, so Liam only gets about four hours of rest before Alan’s banging on the door and yelling at them to _get the fuck up, lazy fuckers, didn’t I fucking tell you bus call’s at twelve?_ To his credit, though, he only complains about a hundred times, and stops when Noel rolls his eyes, holds his arms open and lets Liam snuggle into him and have a nap while Noel chats to Alan about the setlist for America. 

Calum tunes most of it out, because he’s not fussed about what’s on the setlist and he trusts Noel to pick the best of his own songs, and spends two hours getting absolutely thrashed at chess by Tony. By the time they’re back in Manchester, Calum’s lost a game of chess to literally everybody on the bus, including Liam, who's being taught the rules of chess by Noel and Bonehead as they play, and Calum decides he’s never fucking playing chess ever again. 

(“We’re fucking buying some new games,” he says moodily, when Liam flicks his king over nonchalantly. 

“No need to get so mardy,” Bonehead says, stretching out and grinning at Calum. 

“Fuck you,” Calum grumbles, sweeping all the pieces off the chess board. “We’re getting a game that I can fucking win.” 

“Alright,” Noel says, grinning. “How about Frustration?”)

Calum’s mum has dinner ready for him when he drags himself up the path and into the house, and she fusses over the state of his hair and his clothes and says _really, Calum_ in a disapproving voice whenever Calum uses colourful language to describe exactly what he thinks about the production team of Top of the Pops. Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when she tuts at him for fondly calling Liam a silly cunt for the fourth time that evening, because it’s nice. It makes him feel like a kid again, but in the best possible way; warm, protected, like someone’s still looking out for him. 

His dad gets back from work around seven, and they sit down to watch the Top of the Pops performance together. Calum’s heart swells with pride when it’s their turn to play, because they look fucking _cool._ The staging’s still shite, granted, but Liam looks every inch the rock ‘n’ roll star he claims to be, and the rest of them look lazily and effortlessly cool, helped enormously by the fact they’re half in the shadows, lights focused on the Gallaghers. 

Calum’s parents are polite about the song, and he can see they’re beaming with pride, but he can also tell they don’t really get it. It’s okay, he thinks, unable to help the smile that creeps onto his face as he watches his parents watch him on TV. They like jazz. It’s probably for the best that they don’t think it’s good music. 

Calum’s mum switches to some soap opera after Top of the Pops, and his dad grumbles _not this again_ and pulls out his newspaper, but Calum can see his face popping over the top of the paper every two seconds. After three minutes he comments _wasn’t Sheila dating Mark last week? She’s not having an affair with Bertie, is she?_ Calum snorts, and his dad glares at him, opening his mouth to make a defensive remark about how he _doesn’t_ follow this show, it’s absolute _rubbish,_ but then the phone rings. 

“I’ll get it,” Calum says, before anyone has the chance to say anything, mostly to avoid having to listen to his dad’s _I’m_ not _watching this, Calum, don’t be cheeky_ spiel, and his mum just nods absent-mindedly, waving a dismissive hand at him, eyes glued to the TV. Calum heads for the phone in the kitchen, just because it’s the closest, jogging to get there before it rings out. 

“Hello?” he says, when he picks up. There’s silence at the other end of the line, and he frowns. “Hello?” he tries again. 

“Hi.” Calum’s stomach drops. 

“ _Michael?_ ” 

“Yeah.” 

“What the f- how the- what? _What?_ ” Calum’s heart is beating out of his fucking chest, almost covering the embarrassment that’s flaring up as foggy memories of their last conversation drag themselves to the forefront of his mind. 

“Sorry,” Michael says, and he sighs, and Calum can just imagine him running his fingers through his hair, a small crease between his brows. “Fuck, I- sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-”

“No,” Calum says abruptly, clutching the receiver, dreading the fucking dial tone. “No, I just- how did you get this number?” There’s a moment of silence. 

“Only so many Joy Hoods in the book,” Michael says, and Calum exhales, hoping the crackling static of the phone line will hide how shaky it is. 

“Oh,” he says. Michael had sought him out. Michael wants to talk. Michael still remembers his mum’s name. 

“I saw you,” Michael says suddenly, into the uncomfortable silence that’s blossomed between them, neither of them knowing what to say next. “On Top of the Pops.” 

“Yeah?” Calum doesn’t trust himself to say any more, but the question on the tip of his tongue is evident in the eagerness in his tone, anyway. 

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “Sounded good.” 

“That’s because it’s a backing track.” Michael huffs out a laugh, sounding a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it to come out.

“I guess,” he allows. They lapse into silence again, loud and uncomfortable, before Michael sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds a little regretful. “I shouldn’t’ve called.” 

“No,” Calum blurts. “I’m glad you did.” The phone’s warm against his fingers, slippery from his hot, sweaty hands, and he’s clasping it so hard he thinks it might break. He tries to focus on that rather than on what he’s just said, on the knife-edge he feels like they’re poised on, each word a weight that could unbalance them. 

“Are you?” Michael sounds a little doubtful, and a little sceptical. 

“Yeah.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling something over. 

“Do your bandmates know?” Calum’s heart skips a beat. 

“Know what?” 

“That we talked.” _At Glastonbury, while you were drunk and high and out of your fucking mind. You called me pretty, by the way._ He doesn’t say any of that, but Calum’s mind tacks it on helpfully anyway. 

“Do yours?” Calum says, deflecting, because his stomach’s bottoming out with the sheer weight of the guilt, of the broken promise. Or was it broken? Calum barely remembers, just remembers the look on Michael’s face, the tiny microexpressions, the glassiness of his eyes. 

“No.” Calum inhales sharply, can’t fucking help himself - Michael’s talking to Calum, and the rest of Blur don’t know. That's got to mean something, even if Calum isn't entirely sure what.

“Oh.” 

“Do they know?” Michael asks again. Calum stares at the hob opposite him, weighing up his answer. 

If he says yes, he’ll be lying, and whatever the fuck him and Michael have going on right now is so fragile that one lie like that will send it all crumbling down, pulverise it so thoroughly that it’ll never be able to be built back up again. If he says no, though, he’ll be doing the same to Oasis, to his best mates, to his _career._ There's no right answer.

“Not yet,” he settles on eventually, straddling the line between Oasis and Michael. It’s the truth - he hasn’t told them, but they might find out at some point. 

“Are you going to tell them?” Fucking hell. Trust Michael to pick at the loose thread.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” It’s true, and that’s the best Calum can offer him. 

There’s a moment of silence, neither of them really knowing what to say, and it’s fucking gut-wrenching because Calum’s never had that with Michael. He’d never even had to _think_ about what to say with Michael - he’d just existed, just _been,_ and that was always enough. 

“Luke and Ashton asked about you,” Michael says, and Calum’s breath hitches. 

“Oh?” he says. “How are they?”

“Good,” Michael says. “They’re good.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “Luke’s a pilot, now. Or training to be, I think. I don’t know. Ashton’s a teacher.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, voice small. Two of his best mates, in an earlier life; two spotty blonde teenage boys laughing on the beach at Calum splashing Michael in the water, shooting each other furtive glances across crowded rooms, getting high just for an excuse to shotgun. A fucking pilot and a teacher. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. 

“Did they ever get their shit together?” Calum asks. 

“What? Oh, yeah. Fuck, has it been that long?” Michael exhales heavily. “They’ve been together for years.” 

“Oh.” Calum doesn’t know what else to say to that. He’s trying to imagine it; a pilot and a teacher, fucking hell. Maybe Luke brings Ashton little gifts from his trips abroad. Maybe Ashton writes Luke postcards while his pupils work. Who does the cooking? Luke definitely doesn’t clean. Or maybe he does. If Michael’s changed this much, maybe Luke has, too. 

“What about you?” Michael asks. 

“What about me?” Calum’s not sure what Michael’s asking. Michael knows what he’s up to - he’s in Oasis, spending all his money on intoxicants, trying to exist alongside the supernova that’s the Gallagher brothers. 

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t know. 

“I have no id-” 

“Are you seeing anyone?” Michael says it all in a rush, like it’s taken a lot of courage to say it. It probably has, Calum thinks. He wouldn’t have asked Michael. It’s sort of reassuring, actually, makes something a little warm blossom in his chest, because that’s still so _Michael_ . Michael always blurted out questions, always demanded answers, always kept social etiquette and politeness as an afterthought. ****

“No,” Calum says. He swallows, and then adds: “Are you?”

“No.” _Good,_ Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have Michael like that anymore; he doesn’t have the right. 

“Why did you call?” he says instead. Michael hesitates. 

“I saw you on TV,” he says eventually. That’s not a reason. 

“Why did you call?” Calum presses. Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale for a moment. 

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually, on a long, heavy exhale. Calum doesn’t blame him. None of this really makes sense to him either; the fact he feels like this after five years of not seeing Michael, after four years of not speaking to him, after three years of not thinking about him. He’s not sure why he wants this, whatever _this_ is, not sure why he wants more of Michael, not sure why his heart feels drawn to Michael like it’s north and Michael’s south. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, hoping it conveys _I understand._

“I almost reached out,” Michael says suddenly. “A few times. Over the past year, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you?” 

“Didn’t want to.” 

“Why didn’t you tell your band?” 

“Didn’t know how,” Michael says. Calum gets that too; he’d thought about it as well, entertained the idea, turned it over and over in his mind, but he’d never known what to say. _I fucked the guitarist from Blur - I was in love with him actually - and I don’t know why I can’t get him off my mind_ would probably have sparked even worse reactions than the way it _had_ come out did.

“They seem really protective of you,” Calum says. 

“They are,” Michael says, and there’s a small smile evident in his tone. “Not like yours, though. I don’t think all the money in the world could get Graham to start a fight on my behalf.” Calum can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him. 

“I don’t think all the money in the would could get Liam _not_ to start a fight on my behalf,” Calum says, and Michael huffs out a soft laugh. 

"I'm glad you found such good friends," he says, and the smile is ripped off Calum's face at the jarring reminder that they don't know each other anymore. It sounds so distant, like Michael's content with this arm's-length distance between them, two people who used to know everything about each other and are now making polite small talk.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I’m glad, too.” He can’t bring himself to say what he really means - _I’m sorry it was good enough to take me from you._ He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it. 

“I should go,” Michael says after a minute. Calum wants to say _no, don’t, stay,_ but he forces the words back down and nods, still staring blankly at the hob. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Me too.” 

“It was-”

“Don’t,” Calum says abruptly, as his stomach twists. _It was nice talking to you. It was nice catching up._ He doesn’t want to hear the finality of the words, the forced politeness, the jarring dissonance that is the boy he’d known and loved for so long and the man he is now. 

Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs. 

“Look,” he says. “I- you don’t-” he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “D’you want my number?” 

“Do I- uh, yeah,” Calum says, a little stupidly, glancing around wildly for something to write on. 

“I’m on tour for the next few months,” Michael says, as Calum snatches up a recipe his mum had left lying out, and an incredibly unsharpened pencil. “But I’ll- y’know. When I’m home.” _I’ll call you._ He can’t bring himself to say it, and Calum doesn’t blame him. 

“Okay,” Calum says. 

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” Michael rattles off a number, some area code Calum doesn’t recognise, something starting 071. He writes it down hastily, hoping he’s heard it right because he doesn’t want to ask _is that five like hive or nine like fine_ , and then rips the corner of the recipe off and tucks it into his pocket. 

“Got it,” Calum says, dropping the pencil onto the counter with a clatter. “071, where’s that?” 

“London.”

“Oh. Uh. Cool,” Calum says. 

“Well,” Michael says, a touch awkwardly. “See you around, then, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Calum echoes. There’s one more moment, the two of them listening to each other breathing, a second suspended in time, and then it’s broken by a click and a dial tone. 

Calum puts the phone down a little dazedly, just as his mum wanders into the kitchen. 

“Who was it?” she asks. Calum hesitates, and she raises an eyebrow, which means he’s lost the opportunity to say _oh, just a cold call._

“Michael,” he says, and her eyes widen. 

“Clifford?” she says. He nods. Who the fuck else is it going to be, Michael the sound engineer that had mixed two fucking tracks in Cornwall? “I didn’t know you two still spoke.” 

“We don’t.” Her face softens. 

“Oh, honey,” she says gently, and Calum swallows. He hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t told her about the awards ceremony and Glastonbury, and somehow, he doesn’t quite want to. She seems to sense it, though, because she just sighs and pulls him into a warm, tight hug. Calum wraps his arms around her, closes his eyes and buries his face in her shoulder. Even though he’s half a foot taller than her, even though she only comes up to his collarbone, it still feels like she’s the one protecting him, like he’s small and cocooned in her arms. 

She lets go after a minute, fussing over him messing up his hair, and he groans at her and ducks out of the way of her meddling fingers, but the warm feeling stays, and when she smiles at him and tells him she’s going to bake him his favourite biscuits tomorrow, he feels seventeen again. 

(Or maybe that’s just Michael.) 

\-------

July and August pass in the blink of an eye.

After Leeds, they have three weeks off. Calum finally fixes the garden wall, and for the first few days, he finds himself jumping every time the phone rings. It’s never Michael though - most of the time it’s one of the brothers, asking whether Calum wants to go to the pub or get high or go out on the pull, and sometimes it’s Alan, reminding him that he’s got to be here on this day at this time and there on that day at that time and is he writing all this down because he’s going to be responsible for getting Liam there too since Noel’s going ahead this time. 

They go down to London for a few days, record a few new versions of songs and one demo of a new song that Noel’s written but isn’t sure about yet. As soon as he’s heard Liam’s vocals on it, though, his eyes light up, and Calum files the bassline away, because he knows it’s going to be on the next album now, no matter how much Noel’s pretending to hum and haw about it. He can’t fucking let Liam have anything, though, so when Liam comes out of the live room, bright-eyed and desperate for Noel’s affirmation, Noel curls his lip and tells him _that sounded fucking shite, Christ, you’re almost as useless as Tony._ It culminates in a huge fight that Calum and Bonehead manage to duck out of before it begins, only finding out about it when they get woken by a sombre-looking Alan in the middle of the night and informed they’re all being kicked out of the hotel because Liam’s trashed the bar and Noel’s chucked a TV out of the window of his room that landed on the hotel manager’s car.

They play their first show in America on the 21st - their first show outside of Europe - and it goes well. Noel’s not impressed by the country, having toured there with the Inspirals half a decade earlier, but the rest of them are in fucking awe, and Calum catches tiny, fond smiles playing on Noel’s lips when he sees Liam staring at the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, lips parted and eyes wide. 

Noel’s finally managed to get his way on Live Forever too, it seems, because they’re shepherded into Central Park a few days later, half of them hungover and half of them still blind drunk, to film a video. The director seems to be even fucking higher than they are, because he comes up with ideas like Liam singing while sitting on a chair nailed to a wall, and the band take it upon themselves to start suggesting ever more ludicrous ideas, just to see what sticks. Liam throws in chucking a bucket of water over Bonehead, and Calum suggests burying the drum kit, and Noel goes _why don’t we just bury the fucking drummer?_ The director thinks that’s a fucking brilliant idea, _inspired, creative,_ and Noel shoots Calum a look and says _wow, is that how easy this is? You just fucking randomly suggest nonsense and people just go and film it?_

(He doesn’t bother showing up for most of the second day of filming, and Calum can’t really blame him.) 

They fly back to the UK and play another festival on the 31st of July, and as Calum passes by one of the posters on the way to the stage he does a double take, because _Blur_ are on there. Liam sees him looking, though, and taps the top of the poster wordlessly as he walks past - _Sat 30th July._ Calum can’t help the way his stomach sinks at that. Michael was here yesterday, and Calum’s here today. Maybe that’s a sign, he thinks. Maybe fate is trying to tell him something.

Live Forever comes out in early August, and people fucking love it. Calum’s getting stopped in the street in fucking Wolverhampton - _Wolverhampton_ \- and asked to sign autographs, which makes his head spin. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks, when he calls his mum from a payphone and she tells him that they’ve had people turning up at the door asking for interviews. This is what the rise to the top feels like, powered by coke and booze and Noel's guitar. 

They play a festival in Sweden which sees Noel, Liam and Bonehead smashing up a hotel bar with the guys from Primal Scream, who they’d met at T in the Park, and Richard Ashcroft, who they’ve known for years, and once again Calum’s woken up in the middle of the night and informed that they’ve been asked to leave - not just the hotel this time, but the country. He’s driven to the police station where Bonehead, Liam and Noel are being held, and has to stand with the harsh lights hurting his eyes while Alan tries to hash things out with the Swedish police, and then the three fucking delinquents come stumbling out, grinning and reeking of alcohol. 

("Are you trying to get arrested in every single fucking country we visit?" Calum asks Liam, as they make their way to the car.

"No," Liam says, "but that's a fucking mega idea, that." 

Shit.)

They have to film _another_ music video in August, but since it’s for Cigarettes & Alcohol Marcus at the record label lets them bargain the video down from a full on shoot to the filming of a live gig at the Borderline in London and hiring a few pretty faces to mingle with them backstage. It’s not bad, Calum thinks, as Liam hands him a beer and grins drunkenly for the cameras. Slap a fucking black and white filter on it and it’ll look almost intentionally dingy. 

A week after that, the album comes out. 

Calum hadn’t really realised what album releases would entail, but apparently, it’s a _lot_ of fucking interviews. The first few are quite exciting - they’re still not that used to interviews; a few radio shows, a few TV shows, the odd magazine - but after days on end of answering the same questions hour after hour, Calum starts joining Liam for his hourly smoke breaks, just for something to liven the mood. 

They play a show in London the day the album comes out, and Calum finds himself scanning the screaming crowd for blonde hair, pale skin, sea-green eyes, a pretty smile, but Michael’s not there. Calum hadn’t really expected him to be - it’s a small venue, and apparently it’s been sold out for weeks - but it doesn’t stop him feeling disappointed all the same, having to turn to the back of the stage for a minute to collect himself. Tony shoots him a strange look over his hi-hat, but doesn’t say anything, and Calum sends up a quick prayer of thanks that it was Tony and not Noel that had noticed. 

The album goes gold in three days - the fastest-selling debut album in British history - but they barely even have time to celebrate because they’re heading to Sweden again the next day and Alan tells them with an unusually stern expression that he’s had to twist a lot of arms to get them back in and they’re absolutely fucking _not_ allowed to get drunk or high or fight anybody until they’ve been in and out of Sweden. Liam moans and bitches about it but accepts reluctantly, spending the entire journey to Sweden yawning and rubbing his eyes and making sleepy conversation until he falls asleep on Noel’s shoulder. 

The show in Sweden goes off without a hitch, and they’re in Dublin the next day - their first Irish show - and the brothers go fucking _mental._ Calum joins in for a bit but can’t keep up; two Irish Mancunians in Dublin is far too much for his Australian stomach to handle. Belfast is no better, and the day after that they play the Haçienda in Manchester - one of the most famous clubs in their hometown - and after the three-day-binge even the Gallaghers are worn out and sleep for the majority of the two days they have off before heading to Europe and then to Japan. 

Japan is fucking _insane._ Fans are swarming around them the minute they step off the plane, drunk off the free little bottles of booze, and the crowd sings their songs back at them louder than any English fans ever have done. Calum’s glad he’s not singing, because he gets choked up when Liam steps away from the microphone for a second during Live Forever and the crowd scream _did you ever feel the pain in the morning rain as it soaks you to the bone?_ He sees Liam’s eyes widen, sees the way he swallows before starting the chorus, sees the way his gaze flits to Noel and they hold each other’s gazes for a split second, something that only the two of them can read in it, and his heart swells with pride and love. God, he fucking loves his job, he loves the music, he loves his band, he loves the fans, he fucking loves it all. 

They’re riding off the high of Japan when they get to America again, due to play a whole host of shows throughout the rest of September until the end of October, when it all goes wrong. 

They’re not made for America, Calum thinks. They gets thrown out of a radio show for swearing live on-air; they get in a fight with the bouncers at some famous club in Hollywood; and one night in LA they even get a visit from the police, who arrive with their guns drawn, because Bonehead won’t stop playing Supersonic with his amp on full volume at six in the morning. Noel cackles when he sees them and tells them to _fucking go ahead, shoot the cunt,_ and Maggie, their poor, overworked, underpaid tour manager, rushes out in her pyjamas and bargains with the police, tries to smooth things over. Calum thinks that’ll be it, that’ll be the big story of the tour, but it’s all overshadowed when they get to the Whisky a Go Go, some famous club that they’re told repeatedly it’s an _honour_ to be playing. 

Oasis being Oasis, they’re looking for coke. Someone procures a bag of white powder at soundcheck, and Liam grabs it greedily and starts cutting it into lines as the rest of the band circle around it like vultures, and as it goes up Calum’s nose he thinks _fucking hell, this feels a bit fucking different._ He shrugs it off, though, and hands the rolled up dollar bill to Bonehead - maybe American coke’s just stronger. 

It hits him like a fucking train. He’s buzzing with the kind of energy that he’s never had from coke before, higher than he’s ever been before, more euphoric, feels fucking unstoppable, but there’s a dirty edge to it, something gritty and nasty that he just doesn’t like. It’s too late, though, because it’s gone down, and he thinks _fucking hell - well, at least it’ll wear off in about half an hour._

It doesn’t. 

He’s sweating, heart pounding in his chest, vision sharp and blurry at the same time when they get on stage. Everyone else seems to be in a similar situation - Bonehead’s eyes are wide and flitting left to right, right to left, and Liam’s jittery and bouncing on his heels. Noel’s somewhere else completely - he starts playing fucking Bring It On Down when the rest of them start up with Fade Away, and he plays the solo of Supersonic during Cigarettes & Alcohol. They have to play Roll With It one-and-a-half times, because Calum’s bass amp explodes a minute in, and Liam starts shouting at the audience after a crowdsurfer knocks his mic stand over, and then starts shouting at Noel for fucking God knows what, yelling at him to fuck off, until he launches his tambourine at Noel, hitting him on the shoulder, and storms offstage as the set ends. 

Calum heads off dazedly, trying to slow his pounding heart and thinking _fucking hell, what the fuck was in that coke?_ The brothers are still yelling at each other backstage, pupils dilated and faces red, and don’t stop yelling as they’re herded into a car to get back to the hotel, are still screaming at each other as Maggie ushers them up the stairs and into their separate hotel rooms. They each shout a venomous _fuck you, you fucking cunt_ at each other before slamming their doors, and Calum, who’s due to room with Liam that night, decides he’d rather sleep on Bonehead and Tony’s floor than brave that. 

He can’t fucking sleep, though. The high just doesn’t _stop._ He’s so wired, feels so fucking strung out and awful, barely cognisant of what’s going on around him but hyperaware at the same time and he just wants to fucking _sleep,_ just wants to rest. He can’t, though, and neither can Bonehead or Tony, and they just pace around the room, vibrating with energy, muttering _what the fuck do they do to the coke over here, eh?_ every few minutes. 

Time passes so fucking slowly, every minute inching by painfully, and by the time it’s morning Calum’s starting to finally, _finally_ come down. He feels semi-human by the time the knock on their door for breakfast comes, and wrenches it open, still dressed in last night’s clothes, to find a serious-looking Maggie, a crease between her brows. 

“What?” he says, because he knows, he just _knows_ something’s happened. 

“Noel’s left,” she says. Oh. Well. That’s hardly grounds for a face like that. 

“Will he be back for soundcheck?” Calum asks. 

“He’s gone, Calum.” 

“What d’you mean, he’s gone?” Calum’s not quite getting it.

“He asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. “And he’s gone.” Calum stares at her. Noel can’t be _gone._ He might have left, sure, but he can’t have _gone._

“Wha’s tha’?” Bonehead calls groggily, from across the room. He’d come down a few hours ago, managed to force himself to sleep, and he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. 

“Noel’s gone,” Maggie repeats, a little louder. Tony turns from where he’s sat in the corner of the room, twisting his fingers this way and that, eyes wide. 

“Gone where?” Bonehead asks.

“I don’t know,” Maggie says. 

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” 

“He’s gone, Bonehead. Took his passport, took some money, and left.” There’s a moment of stunned silence. 

“Does Liam know?” Tony asks. Maggie bites her lip, and shakes her head. 

“I thought I’d tell you first.” 

“Shit,” Bonehead breathes. “He’s _gone?_ ” Maggie nods. 

“Yeah,” she says. “Suitcase and all.” 

Fuck. 

_Fuck._

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and sits down on the bed. “He’ll come back, though, won’t he?” 

“I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “He sounded pretty certain about it.” 

“Why the fuck did you let him go?” Bonehead demands. 

“I can’t hold him hostage, can I?” Maggie says. “He’s fucking twenty-seven years old.” 

“Shit,” Tony says. “Oh, God. _Shit._ ” 

“I’m going to tell Liam,” Maggie says, sounding a little nervous about it. She probably should be, Calum thinks distantly, staring unblinkingly at the carpet. Noel’s _gone._

“I’ll come with you,” he finds himself saying, more for Liam’s sake than Maggie’s. He stands up robotically, completely on autopilot, and follows her out of the room, leaving Bonehead and Tony in shocked silence. 

Liam answers his door on the first knock, already awake and showered, and his face falls when he sees it’s not Noel. Oh, God. The kid’s going to be fucking beside himself. 

“Can we come in?” Maggie says, aiming for sweet. Liam’s eyes narrow. 

“What’s happened?” he says. Maggie hesitates. 

“Noel’s gone,” she says softly, after a moment. 

“Where to?” 

“He’s gone, Liam,” Calum says. The words feel strange on his lips. Noel can’t be _gone,_ not now, not when they’re finally _getting_ somewhere. Not without fucking saying anything to them. 

“Where?” 

“We don’t know,” Maggie says, still gentle, still kind, still trying to soften the blow. Liam looks about five years old, damp hair plastered to his face, eyes wide and shining with something that looks like fear, maybe, or loss, or rejection. Or maybe all of them with a sheen of anxiety. 

“Fuck,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Is he going to be okay? Is he alright? Did you speak to him?” 

“He just asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. 

“But he’s okay?” 

“I- he seemed okay, yeah, but-”

“Okay,” Liam says, like he’s trying to steady himself. “When’s he coming back?” 

“I-” Maggie cuts herself off, and takes a deep breath. “I think he’s gone for good, Liam.” 

Calum can see it, the moment it registers in Liam’s mind, sees it in the way his eyes widen and his lips part, in the panic that rises in his eyes. 

“He’s not,” Liam says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “He wouldn’t fucking do that.” 

“He’s gone,” Maggie says again, softer than before, and then reaches inside her coat pocket. “He left you a letter.” Liam stares down at the folded envelope in her hand, and then snatches it and shuts the door in both of their faces. 

They stand there for a moment, and then Maggie turns to Calum. 

“Well,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “That could’ve gone worse.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says vaguely, still staring at the door. 

It couldn’t _be_ worse, though. 

\-------

Alan tells them not to worry, for the first few days. Noel’s disappeared before, and he’s quit before, and he always comes back. 

So they try not to worry. Bonehead starts drinking at eleven in the morning, and Calum tries not to worry. Tony and Maggie have hushed conversations under their breath, and Calum tries not to worry. Liam doesn’t leave his room, and Calum tries not to worry. 

They get a fucking _bollocking_ about the gig from Alan, from Marcus, from fucking Maggie, even, but it feels hollow because they all know they’re not going to get the only bollocking that really matters - the one from Noel. They sit there silently while Alan rages about how embarrassing it was, while Marcus runs through numbers and statistics about sales and how they’re going to be affected, while Maggie gives them disappointed looks and says _really, snorting meth hours before a concert, what were you thinking?_

Yeah. They’d snorted fucking _meth._ Some absolute fucking idiot - William John Paul Gallagher - had mistaken meth for coke. It’s why they were absolutely out of their fucking minds, why Calum hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and why Liam and Noel’s argument had been more ferocious than usual. It might also explain why all of this feels even more overwhelming than usual, why the comedown feels like it’s just not going away, why whenever Calum walks past Noel’s empty hotel room he feels like he’s suffocating. 

By the third day, even Calum’s at a loss. He’s been getting out of the hotel, going for long walks and getting lost and having to ask for directions to get back, standing by the sea and breathing in the salty air to try and clear his mind. He’s worried about Noel, more than anything - Noel doesn’t usually leave without saying anything, without getting the last word in, which is what makes this feel all the more real, like this is the time it’s going to stick. 

Although, Calum thinks, maybe Noel did get the last word. He’d written a letter to Liam, after all; maybe he’d said something in there about where he was going, what he was doing, _something_ that makes this whole situation make any sort of sense. Maybe Liam knows something the rest of them don’t. 

He knocks on Liam’s door after he doesn’t show up for lunch again, and Liam answers, looking a little dishevelled, and a lot drunk. 

“What?” he says dully. 

“What did the letter say?” Calum asks. Liam stares at him for a minute, and then opens the door enough to let Calum walk in. 

The room’s a fucking tip. Liam’s clothes are strewn all over the floor - which, granted, isn’t exactly new - and Calum can see white powder residue on the coffee table, the desk, even the fucking bedside table. Next to the smudges of powder on the bedside table is the letter Noel had left, rolled up tightly, but creased all over. Liam’s been reading it, using it to snort drugs, smoothing it out and reading it again, rinse and repeat. 

Calum sighs, and sits down on the chair next to Liam’s bed, throwing him a doleful look. Noel’s Calum’s best friend, sure, and Calum’s not got a clue what to do without him, but he’s Liam’s _brother._ His flesh and blood, the boy who held Liam’s hand while he crossed the road, who nursed him through his first black eye, who writes songs with lyrics like _please, brother, let it be,_ after a fight. Liam's never not had Noel looking out for him - through exasperation and curses and fists connecting with jaws, but there nonetheless. Liam hasn’t got a _chance_ without Noel.

Liam throws himself down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, and Calum puts his hand on Liam’s shin, fingers resting lightly against rough denim. _I’m here,_ he’s trying to say, but it feels hollow to the both of them, because he’s not Noel. 

“What did he say?” Calum asks again. Liam stares up at the ceiling, blinks once, and then opens his mouth. 

“He told me he loved me,” he says. Calum’s stomach twists. That’s not a good thing, not from Noel. He’d never say that, least of all to Liam, unless what he was trying to say was goodbye. 

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to let the panic seep into his voice. “Did he say where he was going?” Liam shakes his head. 

“Just a bunch of shite about _how can we be brothers anymore,_ blah blah blah,” he says, voice rising mockingly on Noel’s words. Anger works for Liam, especially where Noel’s concerned. It’s the only way he knows how to feel about Noel. “Can’t do this anymore, it’s not me it’s you, all that breakup bullshit.” 

“What about your mum?” Calum says, even though he knows the answer to that, because Alan’s been calling Peggy pretty much every hour. Liam shakes his head. 

“She’s fucking beside herself,” he says, fury licking at the edges of his tone. “I get doing it to me, up and leaving like that, because that’s us, innit, but to _mam?_ I’ll fucking kill the prick myself if I ever see him again.” He doesn’t mean it, but Calum lets him pretend that they both believe it. 

“You should eat,” Calum says, after a moment of silence.

“Probably,” Liam says, to the ceiling. He blinks up at it one more time, and then rolls onto his side. 

“He’s a fucking cunt,” he announces, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and his voice wavers a little. Calum sighs and reaches his hand out, and Liam extends his own to lace his fingers with Calum’s, blinking at him with glassy, tired eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and his voice is definitely wobbly now. “I didn’t mean to push him away. I love him.”

“I know,” Calum says, and squeezes Liam’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “He knows, too.”

“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I knew,” Liam says, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t’ve been such a cunt.” 

“Yeah, you would’ve,” Calum says, but it’s not unkind. “That’s how you two are.” 

“Cain and Abel.” 

“Doesn’t Cain kill Abel?” 

“Isn’t Noel killing me?” Calum’s not really sure what to say to that. He supposes, in a way, Liam’s right. One of them’s got to fall off the tightrope at some point, and Liam’s never going to push Noel. And Liam would be all too happy to fall off, if it were for Noel.

“He needs you,” he says eventually. “He’s always needed you.” 

“Does he fuck,” Liam says flatly. 

“He’d never let anyone but you sing his songs,” Calum says. “That’s the highest praise you can get from Noel.” Liam’s silent for a moment, because he knows Calum’s right, and then he sighs again, loud and heavy.

“I’m hungry,” he says, and Calum closes his eyes in relief. "I want fish and chips."

“Order room service,” Calum suggests. Liam blinks at him. 

"Do they do fish and chips?"

"They will if you offer them enough money." Liam hums, like he's thinking about it.

“Will you stay?” he asks lowly. Calum hesitates, and then nods. 

“‘Course I will,” he says, and gives Liam’s hand another squeeze. Liam smiles at him, small but genuine. 

“Love you,” he says. Calum smiles back, soft and fond. 

“Love you too,” he says. 

“Enough to find me good fish and chips in LA?” Liam says hopefully, and Calum laughs. 

“Nowhere near enough for that,” he says, and Liam sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling too, which is the best Calum can hope for.

\-------

A few hours later, while searching for a pack of cigarettes, Calum comes across the spare room key to Noel’s room that Noel had pressed in his hand wordlessly on their first night. Calum hadn’t really been sure what to make of it - was it an invitation for late-night songwriting, or the first acknowledgement of that night a few years ago either of them have ever made? - but it hadn’t even mattered, because Noel had left so soon anyway. 

He’s heading to the room before he’s even really thought about it, unlocking the door and taking in the too-empty, too-clean room. The bed’s been perfectly made by the staff, nothing like the slapdash job Noel usually does, and there’s no suitcase with clothes spilling out of it kicked in the corner of the room, no shoes strewn across the floor as Noel had kicked them off on his way to the bed. It’s almost overwhelming, to know that this room housed the decision that could end Calum’s career, and that this is the last connection he could ever have to Noel. It feels almost suffocating, like the walls are too big and too white for Calum, and he finds himself sitting down on the bed and reaching for the phone before he’s really thought through what he’s doing. 

He’d memorised the number, of course. He hadn’t really meant to; he’d just read the little scrap of paper so often that it had stuck. He barely even hesitates as he dials, chest so heavy with the crushing weight of the empty room, of the silence Noel's left in his wake. 

The phone rings four times and Calum doesn’t even realise his fist is clenched until there’s a click and a shuffling sound, and his fingers relax.

“Hello?” Michael sounds casual, relaxed, a little sleepy. Calum clutches the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Michael repeats. 

“Michael.” He hears a sharp intake of breath. 

“Calum?” Michael says. “Aren’t you in America?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Fucking hell. You’d better make this quick, then.” He doesn’t hang up, though, which is something. Calum just listens to him breathing for a minute, not really sure what he actually wants to say, or if he wants to say anything at all. 

“Calum?” Michael says, jolting him back to reality. 

“Noel’s gone,” Calum says. 

“What d’you mean, he’s gone? Where?”

“Dunno.” There’s a pause.

“You lost your songwriter?” 

“He’s gone. Left.” Michael inhales deeply. 

“Where? Where’d he go?” 

“We don’t know.” Michael exhales. 

“Oh, Calum,” he says, and he sounds sorry and sad. Calum’s eyes flutter shut, trying to soak in the sound of his voice. 

“I-” Calum cuts himself off, because he doesn’t actually know what he’s trying to say. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, and he sounds like he means it. 

“Are you?” Calum can’t help but ask, a little bitterly. If Michael rang him and said Damon had left Blur, Calum would probably feel honour-bound to tell Noel. Or, he wouldn’t, now. Fuck. 

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Michael says, tone a little hard. Calum puts his head in his hands. 

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. 

“Why did you call me if you think that?” 

“I don’t know,” Calum says again, hearing the hopelessness in his own voice. “I just- I don’t know.” Michael sighs. 

“How’s Liam taking it?” he says. He’s trying, Calum can tell. He’s trying, for Calum’s sake. 

“Fucking terribly,” Calum admits. “Noel wrote him a letter.” 

“A letter?” 

“Yeah. A- a fucking, like, goodbye note, I don’t know. He’s a mess.” 

“Jesus.” Michael hesitates for a moment, and then adds: “What happened?” 

“Him and Liam had a fight,” Calum says. “And we played a fucking awful gig in LA.” 

“Don’t they fight all the time?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Why this time, then?” Calum shrugs. 

“We did meth,” he says. 

“You- you did _meth?_ ” Michael sounds horrified. “ _Calum,_ fucking-” 

“We thought it was coke,” Calum says. 

“How the _fuck-_ ” 

“I don’t fucking know, Liam’s a fucking idiot,” Calum says, even though he’d put the stuff up his nose too. 

“Fucking hell,” Michael breathes. “Alright. Jesus. And Noel just- just, what, took off?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, gut twisting at the words. “Took his passport and some money and left.” 

“Passport?” Michael says. “Did he go home?” 

“No.” There’s a pause. 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah,” Calum agrees, and it sounds listless, but he means it with every fibre of his fucking being. 

“I’m sorry, Calum,” Michael says softly. Calum blinks at the wall. 

“Yeah,” he says again. “Thanks.” Michael sighs. 

“What are you going to do now?” he says. 

“I have no fucking idea,” Calum says, the words acrid in his mouth. What the fuck _are_ they going to do now? None of the rest of them can fucking write, can they? Not like Noel, at least. 

“Are you going to finish the tour?” 

“I don’t know, Michael,” Calum says. All the questions are making his head hurt. He hasn’t even thought that far ahead, hasn’t really considered anything beyond _where the fuck is Noel, I hope Noel’s alright, I’m going to fucking kill Noel._ He doesn’t even know if they’d be _allowed_ to play Noel’s songs - there’s got to be some kind of legal bullshit about royalties involved, hasn’t there? God, Noel’s always handled that stuff. Calum’s never read a fucking contract in his life, just signed where Noel told him to sign. Noel had been the one to sort out their management, to negotiate the record deal, to get the contracts for the tours. Who the fuck are Oasis without him? 

“Hey,” Michael says gently. “It’ll be alright.” 

“Will it?” 

“Yeah.” Michael has nothing to back his words up, no events or facts he can point to and say _see, it’ll be fine,_ but somehow, Calum believes him. Maybe because he wants to believe him, with every scrap of his soul, or maybe just because it’s Michael. 

“Thanks,” Calum says, and it comes out tired. Michael just hums in response, and they lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable, though, not like the last time Michael had been at the other end of a phone line. They’re existing in tandem, and it feels like something slotting into a place that Calum didn’t know was empty.

“I can’t believe you did _meth_ ,” Michael says after a while, in disbelief, and Calum can’t help the way his lips hitch up in a faint smile. 

“I didn’t _mean_ to,” he says. 

“Y’know, the tabloids aren’t wrong about you,” Michael says, and there’s a smile in his voice too. He’s teasing Calum. “Always calling you a bunch of hooligans. Taking meth because you think it’s coke, fucking hell.” 

Calum huffs out a laugh, fingers curling around the receiver as his heart flips in his chest. Michael reads about him in the papers. 

“That’s just Liam,” he says. 

“So you _weren’t_ deported from Sweden?” 

“Well-”

“Exactly,” Michael says, and Calum can hear him grinning.

“That was _because_ of Liam,” Calum says. He pauses, and then adds: “And Noel. And Bonehead.” Michael laughs, soft and melodic, and for one split, giddy second Calum thinks _fuck, I want to spend the rest of my life hearing you laugh._ He’s sure he doesn’t mean it, though. It’s probably the fucking days-long comedown, and the fact he’s feeling Noel’s absence like nothing else. It's the first time he's heard someone laugh since Noel left, after all.

“I can’t believe _that’s_ what I’m up against,” Michael says, and it’s still soft and amused, but Calum can hear the slight tinge of sadness to it. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile fading. “That’s your competition.” Michael exhales heavily, and Calum thinks they might be thinking the same thing. _How did we go from us to competition?_

“Why did you call me?” Michael asks. Calum’s fingers twitch against the phone. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just- I don’t know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Why did you call me? After Top of the Pops, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. He’d said the same thing two months ago. But, two months ago he hadn’t added what he does this time: “D’you really want to do this now?” 

“Do what?” Calum says. 

“Talk about this. Us. Now.” Calum swallows. 

“No,” he says. He never wants to talk about it. He wants to walk the edge of this precipice forever, doesn’t ever want Michael to say _c’mon, let’s jump,_ because he doesn’t know what he’ll find at the bottom. He doesn’t know whether Michael’s just biding his time, waiting until they can have their big _what happened to us?_ talk to say everything that he’s thought for the past five years, get it all off his chest, and then fuck off and leave. He’d be well within his rights to, Calum thinks, but that doesn’t stop the mere thought of it from making his heart ache. 

“Okay,” Michael says. “But we-” he’s interrupted by Calum and Liam’s door slamming open. Calum starts in surprise, phone slipping out of his fingers, and whips around to see Bonehead standing in the doorway.

“We’ve found him,” Bonehead says breathlessly. “He’s in San Fransisco.” 

“You’ve found him?” Calum repeats. “What? How?”

“Maggie got his phone bills and traced all the numbers,” Bonehead says. “Found one in San Fransisco. Remember that girl, whatsherface, Leah? Dunno, doesn’t matter, we’ve _found him._ ” 

“And?” Calum says, heart in his mouth. “Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Is he coming back?” 

“Yeah,” Bonehead says, grinning widely. “He’s coming back.” 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Calum mutters, stomach somersaulting. “Does Liam know?” Bonehead’s smile falters. 

“Yeah,” he says. Oh. Noel’s going to have fucking hell to pay. 

“Oh,” Calum says. Bonehead looks at him for a moment, both of them thinking the same thing - _there’s going to be fucking fireworks_ \- and then he grins again.

“Well,” he says, “at least we’ve got our fucking songwriter back, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, and laughs, a little lightheaded. Fucking hell. Noel’s coming back. 

“Bonehead!” he hears someone yell - Liam, he thinks - and Bonehead sticks his head back out of the door. 

“Aye?” 

“...go out...fish and chips...you ask Calum?” is all he can make out. Bonehead casts a glance over at Calum. 

“Fancy going out for tea?” he says. “Liam reckons he’s found a chippy.” Calum raises his eyebrows. Fucking hell. Might as well have one last supper before Noel gets back and all hell breaks loose. 

“Alright,” he says, and gets up to leave, making the phone clatter to the floor. He picks it up hastily, and Bonehead frowns at him. 

“Who’ve you been talking to?” he says. Calum clutches the receiver to his chest. 

“No one,” he says. “Was going to ring my mum.” Bonehead’s face doesn’t clear, and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to work something out. Shit, it’s fucking three in the morning in England, isn’t it? Fuck. 

“Bonehead!” Calum hears Liam yell again, sounding more aggravated this time, and Bonehead sighs in exasperation and turns back around. 

“Fucking hell, who the fuck are you, my missus?” Bonehead yells back. “I”m fucking _coming,_ don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“I’ll just-” Calum motions at the bed vaguely, hoping it’ll come across like he’s got some final organising to do - fucking make the already-pristine bed, or something, anything to make Bonehead leave so he can hang up on Michael - and Bonehead just nods, already halfway out of the door and on his way to Liam. 

Calum brings the receiver back up to his ear, ready to make some excuse to Michael, but all he hears is a dial tone. 

Michael’s already gone. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me writing this fic is just literally switching between oasis-timeline dot com and the wikipedia page for the definitely maybe 94/95 tour while listening to oasis on repeat and thinking about how much i fancy noel gallagher. i am seriously insane thank you for watching my breakdown although actually the past few days i've been in a bit of a london mood been banging out the grime again i really am so london i really am so south 
> 
> as usual all of this is literally based on real events i cannot believe how insanely well the Canon History of Oasis fits into this fic they really lived their lives thinking one day helen is going to write a ridiculously self-indulgent fic we need to make it work for her 
> 
> hope everyone is well!! ive been very absent the past week and a half been incredibly busy and took my laptop in for repairs so i'm using an old laptop that i cannot get to grips with and its getting on my tits and then a heatwave began and i function notoriously badly in heat so i've been lying absolutely fucked on my floor for about 23 hours a day which i have to say is not the ideal way to spend your time but according to our lord and saviour the met office its going to end in 4 days so pray for me please 
> 
> i have two major thank yous to give for this chapter: firstly to our one and only sam as per for reading this shit in its infancy ALTHOUGH i have to say i wrote like half of this tonight and it went in some insane direction so its actually new to you too and secondly to meg because i actually wasnt planning on posting a chapter today because of how frustrating this laptop is and i didnt think anyone was gonna care but she did and <3 i owe u my life for still reading this shit meg even though idk if you ever read my ao3 a/ns

Noel gets back the next afternoon. 

He’s dishevelled, he’s sleep-deprived, he’s stone-cold sober and in a right fucking mood, but he’s there. Calum sees him at breakfast, sat at a table chatting to Alan - he’s just got off his flight, still hasn’t taken his suitcase back up to his room, looks like he hasn’t got changed in the four days he’s been gone - and when Noel spots him, he just stares for a minute, wavering, like he’s not sure how Calum’s going to react. It makes Calum falter too, because Noel’s always so certain about these things, always scoffs and says _c’mon, then, don’t be a dick,_ all business-like, so it’s an unexpected reaction. It feels almost like a shift, feels like maybe something’s irrevocably changed, now, and he’s not really sure what to make of it, not sure whether the way his stomach flips is because of that or Noel or the comedown he’s currently pushing through. 

He heads to the table, though, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do - skip a free meal? No fucking chance - and Noel’s eyes follow him the whole way, a slight edge of trepidation leaking into the edges as Calum gets closer and closer until he’s hovering at the table. He’s not going to speak first, Calum realises. He’s going to let Calum take the lead, and that’s unusual too, nothing like the Noel that had left all of four days ago. Jesus, what the fuck do they do to the water in San Fransisco? Whatever it is, he hopes Noel’s brought some back for Liam to drink.

Alan’s watching the two of them, that managerial instinct telling him that something’s not quite right here, like he can see the way Calum’s skin is crawling with this strange, unknown hesitancy around Noel, and Calum doesn’t want to make a scene in front of him, so he just cocks his head and looks down at Noel.

“You’re a prick,” he says. Noel blinks, and for a brief moment Calum’s stomach drops, like maybe even that has changed, now, like maybe that’s not the right way to say _I love you, you massive cunt_ anymore, and then Noel grins tiredly. 

“Aye,” he says simply, and Calum grins back, relief flooding his veins, and sits down opposite Noel.

It goes pretty much the same with Tony and Bonehead, although Bonehead does cuff Noel upside the head a little harder than strictly necessary. Liam doesn’t come down for food, even though he’s always the first up, and when he realises that the waiters are clearing away the chafing dishes without an indignant Mancunian telling them _oi, I’ve only had six hash browns,_ Calum exchanges a look with Bonehead. Liam’s going to make Noel go to him, isn’t going to let them have a chance meeting. He’s going to make Noel go to him, which for Noel is the same as crawling through broken glass on his hands and knees. 

Noel does it, though, swallows his pride and heads up to Liam’s room when everybody else is chatting animatedly, relief powering the conversation. Calum doesn’t even notice he’s gone until he turns to ask Noel to back him up on Help! being better than Rubber Soul, which is probably what Noel wanted. He’d hate to make a big show of it, for everyone to know that the roles are reversed, that Noel’s going to Liam rather than Liam going to Noel. Still, though, Calum thinks, turning back to the rest of the group and launching into his impassioned defence of Help!, it’s not like Noel. Something’s changed, and Calum’s not entirely sure what, and he doesn’t fucking like it. 

The rest of them don’t see Liam and Noel all day, but when Calum passes by Liam’s room he hears two low voices talking calmly, quietly, rationally, and catches what sounds like _look, you love me, I love you, so let’s make this work,_ and _...for mam’s sake, if nowt else._ They emerge again at dinner, and don’t speak about it, and nobody dares to ask, not even Calum. It’s not like anyone else would understand, anyway; the two of them live on another fucking planet where the normal rules of brotherhood and family and basic fucking decency don’t apply. 

Once Noel and Liam have made up, though - or, at least, started calling each other cunts a little less venomously - the rest of the American leg of the tour goes off without a hitch. 

They’re there until late October, and despite an edge of tension in the band, a little uncertainty as they all try to find their feet in their new, post-Whiskey-a-Go-Go-disaster relationships, the tour goes well. Noel and Liam don’t escalate past their usual arguments, only ignore each other for a few hours at a time, and all their dates are sold out. On top of all that, the album’s hitting heights none of them had even dreamed of. 

(Well, maybe Liam had dreamed of them. In fact, Liam had laid it out plainly for them on the first day of recording, pointing accusingly first at Noel, then Bonehead, then Calum, then back to Noel, skipping Tony completely: _it’s going to be number fucking one, you hear me, and it’s going to go fucking platinum, and whatever the fuck comes after platinum. It’s going to be fucking mega._ ) 

Noel had written some songs while he was in San Fransisco, one candid acoustic ballad that makes Calum and Bonehead share a slightly alarmed glance when they hear it, and Alan insists that they’re masterpieces, so they head to a studio in Texas to record them. Calum stands with Liam behind the thick glass that separates the live room from the control room, watches as Noel blinks down at his acoustic guitar and sings _I wanna talk tonight ‘bout how you saved my life_ and then looks up at either Calum or Liam, Calum can’t tell, and sings _you and me see how we are._ It sends a shiver down his spine, the sheer fucking openness of it, and for the first time makes him think _shit, what was going through Noel’s head when he was gone?_ He’s been so preoccupied with their side of it, with Bonehead’s drinking and Tony and Maggie’s conversations and Liam shutting himself in his room that he hadn’t stopped to think about what Noel might have been feeling, about just how literally Noel means _you saved my life._

When the rest of them get back into the studio to record the other songs, though, it feels like something slotting back into place. It reminds them all who they are, what they are, and smooths over the discordance, evens out the dissonance. The five of them come out of it grinning, laughing, shaking their heads at some ridiculous tale Liam’s spinning, and it feels _good._ For the first time in weeks, giddy with nothing but adrenaline and love, Calum feels good. The music’s what makes them, and the music’s what fixes them. It’s an important lesson, that they can go through something like that and stitch up the wounds with a few guitar strings, and it makes them all feel a little more grounded, a little more confident that they’re back on their feet. 

The day of their flight back to the UK, when they’re all still nursing their incredible hangovers from the celebrations of finishing the North American leg of the tour the night before, Calum goes down for breakfast to find Noel and Liam already sat at the table, deep in what looks like a heated conversation. He hesitates for a moment - any conversation with the brothers whispering fiercely like that is likely a conversation he wants no part in - but it’s too late, because Noel’s seen him, and he’s beckoning him over, brows knitted together. 

“What?” Calum says warily, about three feet from the table, far enough away that he can still make a break for it if it devolves into a shouting match. 

“D’you know where we were this morning?” Noel says. Calum shrugs. He doesn’t even know where they are now, let alone where Noel and Liam might have disappeared to before he was awake. 

“We had a radio interview,” Liam says. Calum’s not sure why he’s supposed to care about that. 

“With Blur,” Noel adds, and Calum’s stomach drops. 

What the fuck? 

“What the fuck?” Calum says, trying his best to school his features into something neutral, feeling the two identical sets of blue eyes scrutinising him, watching for a reaction. “Why- what? Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“We didn’t know,” Liam says, a little coolly, and takes a sip of his tea, eyes still on Calum to see how he reacts. 

“What happened?” 

“What the fuck was s’posed to happen?” Noel says, raising an eyebrow. “We did the fucking interview.” 

“Without calling them cunts?” 

“‘Course,” Liam says, pulling a cigarette out of the packet lying between himself and Noel on the table. “We’re fucking professionals, we are.” Calum snorts. The most professional thing either of them have done is turn up to a bus call only twenty minutes late. 

“You did call Damon a prick,” Noel says mildly to Liam, who waves the hand that isn’t flicking his lighter dismissively. 

“Cal asked about cunt, though, didn’t he?” he mumbles around his cigarette, and Calum and Noel both roll their eyes, Calum huffing out a laugh and Noel tutting, both edged with fondness. 

“The Sun’s going to have a fucking field day,” Calum says, deciding it’s safe enough to sit down. The two of them don’t seem in too bad of a mood; in fact, they seem a little too calm, both of them looking at Calum with almost blank expressions, heads tilted one way. “What?” Calum adds, a little defensively, and Liam leans forwards, taking the cigarette out of his mouth just so he can speak properly. 

“Mike was there,” he says, like he’s revealing a big secret that he’s been bursting to tell. Calum’s heart skips a beat, but he keeps his face straight, and just blinks at Liam. So _that’s_ what this is about. He should’ve known, really; it would have been too much to ask for the Gallagher brothers to forget about that part of Calum’s sexual history for, like, two fucking minutes. 

“Well, he’s part of Blur, isn’t he?” Calum says. 

“He asked after you,” Noel says, far too nonchalantly, stirring his tea. Calum swallows, feeling the all-too-familiar guilt surge up in his lungs. He shouldn’t be talking to Michael. He shouldn’t have taken Michael’s number, shouldn’t have learnt it off by heart, shouldn’t have sat in Noel’s empty hotel room and turned to Michael on one of the worst days of his life. And he definitely shouldn’t have done all of that without telling Liam or Noel. 

“Oh,” Calum says. “Well.” He’s not sure what else to say, what else the guilt will even let him say. “What did you say?” Liam throws him a slightly indignant look. 

“Told him to fuck off, obviously,” he says, like he’s a little offended Calum’s even asked. “Not telling him fuck all about you, am I?” God. If it were anyone else they were talking about, Calum would feel a pure rush of love for Liam, at the fact he’s so unquestioningly and unnecessarily protective of Calum, but because it’s Michael, a huge surge of guilt washes over the love that rises in him, lapping at his veins before the love can get there. 

“Oh,” Calum says again, and Liam just turns back to his tea, clearly thinking the conversation’s over, that what needed to be said has been said and satisfied with Calum’s response. Noel, though, is still looking at Calum, something too perceptive in his cool blue eyes. 

“Why would he ask?” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, something cold and challenging. 

“What d’you mean?” Calum says, holding his gaze, trying to push all the panic rising in his chest back before it reaches his eyes. Shit, what the fuck had Michael said? Did he mention anything about the phone call? Does Noel know?

“Seems a bit friendly.” Noel’s eyes are carefully blank, expression guarded, not giving anything away, cards held close to his chest. 

“He’s a friendly guy,” Calum says, relieved at how even his voice comes out. “Just because you two are cunts.” At that, Liam looks up again, frowning. 

“Who’s a cunt?” he says, incensed. Calum almost lets out a sigh of relief - if Liam’s back in the conversation, Noel won’t say anything else. At least, not now, he won’t. Calum’s just buying himself time, really; Noel’s going to stew on it, mull it over on late-night bus calls and midday hangovers, and come back to Calum when he thinks he’s got something infallible to slash at Calum’s defences with.

“You are,” Noel tells Liam. 

“You are too,” Calum reminds him, and Noel shrugs. 

“Could be worse,” he says. “Could be Damon Albarn.” Liam snorts, and even Calum has to roll his eyes and shake his head, reaching over for Noel’s tea and pulling it towards him, wanting something to do with his jittery fingers. Noel lets him, even pushes a packet of sugar in his direction because he knows Calum can’t stand drinking tea unless it’s immediately going to give him diabetes, and Calum smiles, watching as something a little disarmed crosses Noel’s face for a split second before he schools his features back into that half-irritated, half-challenging expression that’s so Noel he might as well patent it. 

Strange, Calum thinks, as he empties the entire packet of sugar into what’s now his tea. Noel doesn’t have chinks in his armour, not really. At least, not when it comes to anyone whose name doesn’t start with an ‘L’ and end with an ‘iam’, and last time Calum checked, he wasn’t a loud-mouthed twat from Manchester that Noel’s been exasperatedly hauling out of trouble for the past two decades. He doesn’t really have time to wonder what it’s about, though, because then Liam’s sighing loudly, raising his hand to catch the nearest waiter’s attention, and saying: “Alright, mate, don’t happen to know where the best place to score coke around here is, do you?” 

“Liam,” Noel says warningly, the well-worn older-brother irritation already lacing his tone, and Liam just shoots him a _what?_ sort of look, as the waiter stares back at them. 

“Coke?” he asks, a little hesitantly, like he’s sure he’s misunderstanding what Liam’s asking. 

“Yeah, mate, y’know, the old Colombian marching powder,” Liam says, nodding his head, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have with a waiter at ten in the morning. 

“I- uh, sir, I’m not sure-” the waiter starts, a little nervously, and Liam leans forwards. 

“Cocaine, mate,” he says slowly, clearly thinking the waiter’s not caught on, like that’s the only possible explanation for why he’s not immediately gone _oh, yeah, ‘course, hang on, let me my local dealer on the line._

“Piss off, Liam,” Noel says, a definite note of annoyance in his voice now, and Liam’s like a shark to blood, turns away from the waiter, all thoughts of getting whatever white powder he can procure up his nose forgotten as he spots a new drug of choice; arguing with Noel. It’s something Calum’s seen a hundred times, the way Liam will find a gap in Noel’s defences and worm his way in, make a home under Noel’s skin just for a few minutes of his attention, and it’s not something he fancies sticking around to watch, knowing it’ll end with fists flying with no regard for who might be caught in the crossfire. 

“I’m going back up,” he says, even though he hasn’t eaten yet, but neither Noel or Liam are listening anymore, already caught in a half-hissed, half-yelled conversation about whether it’s inappropriate or street-smart to ask a random local guy for coke plugs _at his job, Liam, at his fucking job, and do you know how many fucking hotels we’ve been kicked out of because of you so far this year?_ Liam’s raising his voice as Calum walks out of the room, shouting something about _me? It’s not just me, you prick, you were in fucking Sweden as well, right, and you’re the one who took off to fucking San Fransisco, what the fuck else was I going to do while we all waited for you to stop being such a pathetic little cunt?_ , and Calum knows he’s left just in time when he hears the sound of crockery shattering in the distance as he jogs back up the stairs to his room. He doesn’t really mind, though, doesn’t care if they get kicked out of this hotel too, because all he can think, heart pounding, is _why the fuck did Michael ask after me, when the last thing he might have heard is me calling him ‘no one’?_

He doesn’t even get time to think about that, though, because Bonehead’s on his way down as Calum’s on his way up, and he blocks Calum’s path and insists Calum join him on a walk to the supermarket because the amount of beer he’s going to have to drink to deal with the brothers on an eight hour flight back home needs two people to carry it. Calum thinks _shit, he’s right,_ so they fetch Tony to carry all the alcohol Calum’s going to need to drink too, and then spend the walk to the shop and the entire time traipsing around it arguing about whether or not Tony should get any of the alcohol they’re loading into their arms. Calum weighs in for the first ten minutes, but it becomes clear Bonehead and Tony are just looking to fight about something, so Calum draws back and lets them have at each other, walks next to them and lets the sound of their rowing wash over him as his thoughts turn back to Michael.

Did Michael really want to know? Or was it a power play, him saying something to Liam and Noel knowing it would get back to Calum? No, surely not, Calum thinks, as Tony and Bonehead bicker about whether or not Tony deserves at least _one_ of the six-packs Bonehead’s picked up. Michael wouldn’t do that. He’s not that kind of person. 

_Maybe Michael isn’t,_ a little voice in his head says, _but maybe Mike is. You don’t know Mike, do you?_

(Calum thrusts one of his six-packs at Tony, suddenly feeling a little too sick to drink.)

\-------

They head back to Europe in November, first to the UK to record Whatever, and then straight off to France. Noel even manages to make a joke about the Amsterdam ferry incident as they’re waiting to board in Dover, which is as close to saying _I forgive you_ to Liam for the episode as he’s going to get. 

Calum doesn’t speak to Michael for almost two months. He doesn’t want to call first, after the way the last call ended and still uncertain about the whole Michael-Liam-Noel situation, and Michael doesn’t call him. Calum tries not to dwell on it, to think too hard about the sound of the dial tone and the way he’d called Michael _no one,_ but Blur are fucking _everywhere._ It seems like they’re playing all the same places as Oasis but a few weeks earlier, because every time Calum walks down a French street he’s accosted by blown up images of Michael’s face, moody and pretty, staring down at him from billboards and bus stops and fucking lampposts. 

It’s one of those posters stuck haphazardly onto a lamppost in Berlin that Calum sees, a few hours before they’re due to play a show, that reminds him, with a jolt, what the date is. 

The twentieth of November. 

Michael’s birthday. 

Calum’s almost taken aback that he remembers. He’d forgotten for the past three or four years - the date had passed him by without so much as a second glance - and the thought makes him feel a little guilty, a little sick, like he’s broken a promise to himself that he never even knew he made. 

There’s a little phone booth next to the lamppost that looks like it might not even be working, and Calum finds himself striding in that direction, fumbling in his pocket for the few German coins he’d been given. It’s nothing, he tells himself, as he starts dialling Michael’s number. It’s just polite to wish someone a happy birthday. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. 

It only takes two rings for someone to pick up, a soft click and a moment of silence at the other end of the line.

“Hello?” It’s not Michael; it’s a woman. Maybe Michael has a house-sitter? Calum’s pretty sure Michael must be loaded now, right, if he’s in Blur? _He’s_ probably not pissing all his royalties away on drink and drugs. They probably have a group accountant to manage everything for them, rather than Noel cuffing them all upside the head and going _eeyar, yous need to start buying cheaper coke._

“Oh,” Calum says. “Uh. I’m looking for Michael?” 

“He’s in Japan at the moment,” the woman says. Her voice is sweet and warm, almost comforting, and oddly familiar. It’s probably just the Australian accent, Calum thinks. Anyone with an Australian accent has sounded familiar to him since he left.

“Oh,” Calum says again. He should’ve guessed, really. Of course Michael’s not at home. He’s in a fucking band. In _Blur,_ no less. Of course he’s on tour. 

“May I ask who’s calling?” the woman says. Calum hesitates. 

“Just a friend,” he says, a little evasively. “Just- uh. Wanted to wish him a happy birthday, is all.” 

“Oh, that’s lovely,” the woman says, and she sounds like she’s smiling. “I can give you the number of his hotel room in Japan, if you’d like.” 

“I-” Calum’s not sure what to say to that. He might be sending a message he’s not entirely sure he wants to send if Michael finds out Calum had called his house first, and then got the number for his hotel in Japan. 

“Or I can pass along a message?” the woman offers. “What’s the name?” Calum bites his lip. It can’t hurt, he thinks. It’s not like Michael will have spoken about Calum to anyone who’s known him in the past few years, if he hadn’t told his own bandmates. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Yeah, that’d be good, thanks. It’s Calum.” The woman lets out a little gasp. 

“Calum Hood?” she says, and Calum’s stomach drops. "I should have recognised your voice! You've lost your accent, haven't you?"

“Uh,” he says intelligently, but she’s already started talking again. 

“It’s Karen,” she says. 

Oh, fucking hell. 

“Oh,” Calum says. Fuck. Jesus Christ. Of _course_ it’s Michael’s mum. Of course Michael wouldn’t get a fucking house-sitter, rich and in Blur or not. It’s oddly steadying, though, that in this instance at least Michael’s Michael and not Mike, makes something electric shoot through Calum as he thinks _maybe I still know enough of him._ “Uh. Hi?” 

“I didn’t know you and Michael were still in contact,” she says, and he can hear the grin in her voice, how happy she sounds about it. It makes his stomach twist in guilt, heavy and leaden. 

“Yeah,” Calum says weakly. “Well. Not really. But- y’know. It’s his birthday.” He cringes at his own words, stilted and uncomfortable, but Karen doesn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m sure he’ll want to hear from you himself,” she says jovially. “I’ll give you his number, hang on a minute.”

“Actually, I-”

“Yes, here it is. Have you got a pen and paper?”

“I don’t-” Calum breaks off, looking wildly around him, and picks up the pen on the top of the telephone keypad, scratching it against the sign that tells him how much of his money he’s pissing away on this phone call. He’s roped into this, now, isn’t he? Karen will tell Michael Calum called, and if Calum doesn’t call Michael after telling Karen he would, it’ll look suspicious. Or it’ll look like he doesn’t care enough, which, with their fragile balance and Calum not knowing where Michael’s head’s at, is the last thing he wants. 

“Okay. It’s oh-one-two,” Karen begins, and Calum nods along as she reels off the number for him, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he forces the last of the ink from the pen onto his hand. “Oh, and the country code is zero-zero-eight-one.” Great. Now he can’t even use that as an excuse. 

“Thanks,” Calum says, hoping it comes out genuine and not sarcastic. “I’ll, uh. I’ll call him, then.” 

“Do,” Karen says, and Calum can tell she’s positively beaming. God, he’s a terrible person. “I’m so happy you called, Calum. I should have known you two would have stayed in contact and not let any of this Blur versus Oasis nonsense get in the way of your friendship.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says feebly, feeling guilt tap insistently at his lungs, waiting to be let in. “Well. It was nice talking to you?” He’s not sure how to end a phone call that isn’t either a polite _speak to you soon_ or an exasperated _Liam, you cunt, don’t you fucking hang up on m-_

“Of course!” Karen says brightly. “I’m very proud of you, Calum. Y’know, I remember you getting your first ever guitar, and look at you now. I’m glad you kept your head screwed on straight.” Calum thinks of the three thin white lines Liam had cut for him earlier that are probably still in his bloodstream, and winces. 

“Yeah,” he says, trying for grateful. “I, uh, I try. Thank you.” 

“I’m sure I’ll speak to you soon,” Karen says. “I hope you manage to catch Michael!” 

“Thanks,” Calum says again, and hopes he doesn’t sound like he wants to gouge his own eyes out. Karen doesn’t seem to notice, though, just chirps a happy _goodbye!_ and leaves Calum to stare at the telephone keypad, holding the receiver loosely in his hand, like he can’t really believe what’s just happened. 

Well, fuck. Now he’s got to call fucking Japan. 

Calum sighs and starts dialling the number, sending out prayers that Noel’s got some really big fucking tunes up his sleeve for the next album to pay for this call. It rings three times, and then there’s a click as someone picks up. 

“Hello?” It’s not Michael. Jesus Christ. Why the fuck is wishing someone a happy birthday this much of an ordeal?

“Is Michael there?” he asks. There’s a short pause. 

“Who’s calling?”

“A friend,” Calum says. “Who’s this?”

“Graham.” Which one was that? The one with glasses, right? The other guitarist? 

“Right. Is Michael around?” 

“Depends on who’s calling.” Calum sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. Wishing someone a happy birthday really shouldn’t be this fucking hard.

“It’s Calum,” he mumbles. “From Oasis,” he adds, in case Michael happens to have met a few more Calums in the past couple of years. 

“What the hell are _you_ calling for?” 

“Why the hell d’you think?” Calum knows he sounds hostile, but he doesn’t care, not when the nervousness that had been contained in his stomach is starting to seep out into his bloodstream.

There’s another pause. 

“Alright,” Graham says, but he still sounds suspicious. There’s a rustling sound, and then Calum hears him yell _Mike! Calum’s on the phone for you._ _Yes, Oasis Calum, d’you know any other Calums? Well, okay, yeah, but you haven’t spoken to him since last Chri-_

Every second feels like an eternity - although that’s probably at least slightly to do with the fact that he’s spending his entire month’s pay on this call - but eventually there’s more rustling, some fierce muttering that Calum can’t understand beyond _-in the bathroom, you dick,_ and then the sound of a phone being lifted to someone’s ear. 

“Calum?” Michael says, and there are footsteps, like he’s walking as far away from the handset as possible. 

“Happy birthday,” Calum says lamely. All of this for those two words. It feels incredibly anticlimactic. 

“Oh,” Michael says, and he sounds surprised. “I mean. Thanks. I didn’t think you’d remember.” Neither did Calum. 

“Well,” Calum says, because he doesn’t want to say that. “Just wanted to call and- uh, say happy birthday, I guess.” 

“How’d you get this number?” Michael asks, sounding curious. Calum bites his lip. 

“Your mum gave it to me,” he says. 

“You rang my house?” 

“Well, it’s the only number I have for you, isn’t it?” 

“Did you tell her it was you?” 

“Yeah.” Michael exhales heavily. 

“I haven’t told her,” he admits. “That we’re talking again. Or- y’know. I just haven’t mentioned.” 

“I know,” Calum says. “She was surprised that I called.”

“What did she say?” Michael asks. Calum swallows. 

“Just, y’know, nice to hear from me, she’s glad I called, all that,” he says vaguely. Michael hums, like he’s mulling it over, and Calum’s stomach flips. Maybe he shouldn’t have called at all. Maybe Michael wants Calum to be his dirty little secret just as much as Calum wants Michael to be his. After all, Calum’s own mum doesn't know either, does she? It’d be hypocritical of Calum to hold it against Michael if he wanted to keep it under wraps too. 

(It still kind of stings, though.)

“I’m going to get a fucking Spanish Inquisition when I get home,” Michael says eventually, and Calum huffs out a laugh, stomach untangling itself a little from the tight knot it’s been in for the past five minutes. 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, the ghost of a smile flitting across his face as he thinks back to being grilled and reprimanded by Karen any time she got so much as a whiff of a secret from either of them. “D’you remember that time she thought we-”

“Remember when she thought we’d been out smoking weed?” Michael blurts at the same time, and Calum can’t help but smile properly this time, heart somersaulting at the fact that Michael remembers too. 

“She was so angry,” Calum says, through a grin. “Kept saying she could smell it on you.”

“Fucking crazy woman,” Michael says, but Calum can hear that he’s grinning too. “We couldn’t afford weed, what was she on about? We hadn’t even been _drinking,_ just been-” he cuts himself off abruptly, and the smile drops off Calum’s face. 

They’d been fucking, is what they’d been doing.

“Good thing she didn’t smell that on us,” Calum tries, and Michael huffs out a small laugh, but it’s tight and uncomfortable. Neither of them speak again for a moment, the silence awkward and palpable, until Michael sighs. 

“What are we doing?” he mumbles, sounding a little pained. 

“I’m wishing you a happy birthday,” Calum says, because he doesn’t want to follow the road that Michael’s words are beckoning him down.

“You know what I mean,” Michael says. “We need to talk.” Calum’s stomach twists. Those words are never followed by any good conversations. 

“Do we?” he says, hoping it doesn’t sound as apprehensive to Michael as it does to him. He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to have that conversation, to hear Michael say _you fucked up, and this is it,_ doesn’t want to have to go all the way to see him just to hear him say _I don’t want you anymore._

“When are you back in the UK?” 

“December,” Calum says. “Late December. Near Christmas, I think. I’ll have to ask Maggie.” 

“Maggie?”

“Our tour manager.” 

“Oh.” There’s a moment of silence. “Well. Call me when you’re back?” 

“Look,” Calum says, a little desperately, clutching the receiver to his ear. “I- if you want to, like, end whatever this is, not talk to me anymore, I’d rather you just do it now. I don’t want to travel all the way to London for you to tell me you never want to speak to me again.” Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale. 

“I didn’t say that,” he says carefully, after a minute. “But we need to talk.” Calum blinks at the telephone keypad. He’s not sure what to make of that. 

“Okay,” he says. “I- uh, yeah. Okay. I’ll call you when I’m back home?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. He pauses, and then adds: “I should go. I locked Graham in the bathroom to take this call.” Calum can’t help the snort that escapes him. 

“I should try that on Liam,” he says. 

“I think it’d take more than a bathroom door to contain Liam Gallagher,” Michael says. He’s got a point. 

“You’ve got a point,” Calum concedes, and he hears Michael huff out a small laugh at the other end of the line, crackled and tinny but genuine and soft. “I should probably go too. I’ve got a show in a few hours.” 

“Where?” 

“Berlin.” Michael hums. 

“We played there a few weeks ago,” he says. 

“I know,” Calum says, without thinking. “Uh. I mean. The posters are all still up.” 

“Surprised Liam and Noel haven’t gone around tearing them all down,” Michael says, and Calum can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I think they’re planning on pasting posters of us over you.” 

“Hope they have a lot of them.” Calum grins, eyeing the three Blur posters he can see in his line of vision. 

“That’ll be my entire share of the royalties gone,” he says, and Michael snorts. 

“I really should go,” he says, sounding a little regretful. “I’ve got to spend at least half an hour convincing Graham not to tell Damon I locked him in a bathroom to talk to you.” 

“Why?” Calum’s not sure why he asks, because he’s fairly certain he doesn’t want to hear the answer. _Because I don’t want anyone to know we’re talking. Because I want to keep you a secret. Because I’m ashamed of you._ It’s even worse because he can’t blame Michael for it.

“If I do anything to Graham, Damon takes it as a personal attack.” Oh. Well. That probably shouldn’t make something warm blossom in Calum’s stomach, the fact that it’s not because of him, but it does. 

“Damon doesn’t seem particularly intimidating,” Calum says. 

“You fucking wait,” Michael says, and there’s a fondness to his tone that makes Calum’s heart ache, because Michael used to talk about him like that. “Call me when you’re back in the UK, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Bye, Michael.” He’s expecting a click, the thin sound of the dial tone, but it doesn’t come. 

“I’m glad you called,” Michael says after a moment, all in a rush, like he’s had to build up the nerve to say it. 

“I’m glad I did, too,” Calum says, and he can’t help the small smile playing at his lips. Michael’s glad he called. 

“I’ll see you soon,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile slipping off his face as his stomach flips unpleasantly thinking of the inevitable conversation. “Soon.” 

The dial tone rings loud and harsh, and Calum listens to it for a good few moments before putting the phone down and stepping out of the booth. Three Michaels stare at him from different angles as he heads back for the hotel, declaring something in German that he can’t read, eyes seeming to follow Calum as he turns the corner. They seem almost disapproving, like they know Calum doesn’t want to talk. Or maybe that’s Calum’s guilt-ridden imagination. 

Well, Calum thinks, stomach flipping as his eyes find another picture of Michael plastered to a lamppost. At least they aren’t posters of Noel and Liam, in that case. 

\-------

December comes far too soon. 

The album goes platinum while they’re in Southampton, or maybe Sheffield, and Calum joins the rest of the band at some grimy nightclub, drunk and high and full of adrenaline because shit, that’s their fucking album. Number one and platinum, fucking hell. It doesn’t feel fucking real.

They film a video for Whatever somewhere in London, and Noel turns up late to the filming, still dressed in his clothes from the night before, so drunk that he can barely play his guitar. Liam’s fucking furious, probably because this is the first time Noel’s ever been drunker than him, and Calum has to spend the rest of the day making sure Liam doesn’t go into the same room as Noel, because they still have a few weeks worth of dates in the UK and they could do with having both the lead guitarist and singer alive for them. 

The UK dates pass so fast in blurs of games of Frustration on the tour bus as green and grey whip past the window that Calum barely notices that it’s their week off until he sees a river that looks suspiciously like the Mersey and asks Noel where they are. 

(“Liverpool,” Noel says, throwing him a strange look. 

“We’re going home tomorrow,” Liam adds.

“Too right you’re fucking going home,” Noel says. “Not fucking kipping at mine again.” Liam scowls, opens his mouth with an indignant expression, and Calum decides now’s a great time to find Alan and ask him about the re-stringing of Calum’s bass he’d said he’d sort out before the gig.) 

He’s so exhausted after their last show, having his first proper comedown in weeks, that he can’t do anything but crash through the front door and stumble to his bed at six in the morning. He sleeps like the fucking dead, and by the time he gets up and showers, feeling a bit more alive than he has done the past few days, it’s nearly dark outside. 

“Good morning,” his mum says pointedly, when he wanders into the kitchen, yawning, and pulls open the fridge. 

“Morning,” Calum says, pulling out a beer and some leftover pasta. “Where’s Dad?” 

“Gone fishing,” his mum says. Calum grunts to let her know he’s acknowledged it, and heads to the microwave. 

“Liam called earlier,” his mum says, as he presses some random buttons - he really should figure out how this microwave works - and then sets it off. 

“Oh?” Calum says. 

“He was asking if you wanted to come round tonight,” his mum says. Calum hums, frowning a little. Liam’s not very good at being on his own, no one to take his endless energy out on now that both Paul and Noel have moved out, but he can usually take at least a day or two. 

“Might do,” he says, because there might be something more to it if Liam’s already itching to see him again after less than twenty-four hours, and then sees the disappointed look on his mum’s face. “After dinner?” Her face clears, and she nods. 

“We’ll be eating around seven,” she says. “Oh, and another bit of wall’s fallen in. Could you take a look?” Calum groans, and tips his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters under his breath, drawing out the first syllable. His mum tuts, and the microwave dings. “Yeah, alright.” He opens his eyes and reaches for the microwave. 

“Michael called, too,” his mum says, and Calum swears again as the plate drops out of his hand and crashes to the floor, smashing to pieces and dropping hot, steaming pasta everywhere. His mum jumps out of the way, swears loudly, and says: “Bloody hell, Calum.”

“Sorry,” Calum says, scrambling to his knees to try and pick up as many pieces of plate as he can. “It was hot.” His cheeks are burning, partially from embarrassment and partially from whatever’s making his heart race like it is, and he stares steadfastly at the floor as he shuffles around. 

“What did he want?” Calum asks, as casually as he can, speaking to the floor. 

“He didn’t say,” his mum says. She hesitates, and then adds: “What’s going on with you two?” Fuck if Calum knows. 

“I don’t know,” Calum says, still not looking at her. He doesn’t want to see the inevitable disapproving look on her face, the motherly instinct to stop him doing something that’s probably just going to get him hurt etched on her features. 

“When did you start speaking again?” Calum hesitates, hand hovering over a shard of ceramic. He’s not really sure himself. Would it be the awards show? Or Glastonbury? Or that first phone call a few weeks later? It’d be Glastonbury, he supposes, because Michael hadn’t even acknowledged his existence at the awards show, couldn’t even look Calum in the eye. Glastonbury had been the first time Michael had admitted to the both of them that he still remembered Calum. 

“Glastonbury,” he says, and his mum inhales sharply. 

“Why didn’t you say?” she asks. Calum sits back on his heels, looking up at her, and shrugs. 

“I didn’t know how,” he says, which is sort of the truth. He leaves out the fact that he hadn’t really wanted to tell her, had wanted to squirrel it away, the last little piece of Michael that he could have to himself. 

Her expression softens, and she purses her lips, a little sadly. 

“Be careful with him,” she says, and Calum’s not sure whether she means Calum should protect himself or protect Michael. After all, she’d seen all the unopened letters Michael had sent.

“Yeah,” he says, looking back down at the pasta still spread across the floor. It feels sort of fitting, somehow. “I’ll try.” His mum sighs, and pushes herself off the kitchen counter she’s been leaning against. 

“Go,” she says. “I’ll clean this up.” 

“No, it’s alright, I-”

“Go,” she says, a little more sternly, and Calum gets to his knees, wiping his hands and dusting his knees off. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll just-” 

“Call him,” she says. He hates that she knows him so well. 

Calum heads out for the phone in the hallway, not wanting to take the call in the living room or kitchen where his mum might eavesdrop, and dials Michael’s number. He twirls the cord around his finger while it rings three times, until there’s a click and someone picks up.

“Hello?” 

“Hi.”

“Oh,” Michael says. “Hi. Your mum said you were asleep.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, a little apologetically. “I didn’t get up until, like, half an hour ago. We played our last show for a while yesterday.” 

“Oh,” Michael says again, a note of recognition in his voice. Of course, Calum thinks; Michael’ll know what last shows - particularly home shows - are like. “Well. I just wanted to see if you were home, really.” He doesn’t say why, but they both know. 

“I am ‘til the twenty-seventh,” Calum says. Michael hums. 

“When can you come down?” Calum exhales heavily. He could go down any day, really. Tomorrow, if Michael wanted. He’s not sure whether he should just get it over with, or whether he should make the most of the last few days that he might have with the secret feeling of _maybe there’s still hope._ It’s been six months; he can probably stand a few more days of anticipation. But then again, it’ll be better to get it out of the way now, to have as long before Christmas as he can to gather himself after whatever Michael will throw his way so that it’s not overshadowing the few days his parents will get with him before he’s off again. 

“Tomorrow?” he offers, a little tentatively. He’s not sure whether it seems a bit too keen. 

“Yeah, tomorrow’s good,” Michael says. 

“I can be in London for twelve?” He winces, thinking about how early he’s going to have to get up for that. 

“Twelve works. Where d’you come in?” 

“Euston.” 

“Can you get to Camden?” Michael asks. “Or d’you want me to pick you up?” 

“No, I can get there,” Calum says, even though he’s not entirely sure he can. 

“Alright. I’ll give you my address, hang on-” there’s scrambling at the other end of the line. 

“D’you not know your own address?” 

“I- well, sort of, but-” Calum can’t help but laugh. “Fuck you,” Michael says, but Calum can hear he’s smiling too. “You got a pen and paper?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says. Michael reels off an address, postcode and all, and Calum dutifully jots it down, only stopping him once to ask whether he’d said D or E. 

“Alright,” Calum says, re-capping the pen and tearing the sheet of paper off the pad next to the phone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” 

“See you tomorrow,” Michael echoes, and Calum only hesitates for a moment before hanging up. It feels strange, he thinks, not to hear the dial tone ringing in his ear, one last reminder of Michael even after he’s gone.

(He wonders whether Michael lingered like he always does.) 

\-------

Liam ends up coming round for dinner, sounding relieved and grateful when Calum calls him and offers, making Calum frown and file the information away to quiz him on later. Calum’s mum rolls her eyes and makes exasperated noises when Calum tells her he’s coming, because _now I have to make dinner for four people, Calum, couldn’t you have told me a bit earlier?_ but Calum knows she doesn’t really mind. Brash and corrosive though Liam can be, he’s got a childlike charm to him that captivates anybody who meets him, Calum’s parents included. They spend dinner laughing at stories Liam tells about tour, exaggerated and carefully skipping over all the drug use, and Calum’s mum even waves them away when they go to help wash up, tells them with a smile to head to the pub, go on, enjoy yourselves, you deserve it. 

“I fucking love your mam,” Liam says, practically skipping as they walk down the dark street to the pub. He’s not even wearing a coat, the fucking madman. Calum huddles further into his own, nosing into the collar of it as the cold wind whips at him. 

“You’re just saying that because she made your favourite pasta,” Calum says, and Liam turns back to him and grins. 

“Didn’t hurt,” he says. “C’mon, it’s cold.” 

“Why the fuck didn’t you bring a coat?” Liam shrugs, hopping from foot to foot. Calum’s not sure whether it’s because he’s cold, or because he’s Liam. 

“Nearly there, anyway,” Liam says, as they round the corner to the street the pub’s on. “Mam gave me a tenner for drinks.” Calum snorts. 

“Why’s your mum giving you money for drinks?” he says. “You’ve got a fucking number one album.” Liam grins. 

“Still the youngest kid, though, aren’t I?” he says, eyes twinkling. He’s got a point. Peggy would never give Noel a tenner for the pub. 

“Y’know, I can see why Noel hates you,” Calum comments, and Liam’s grin widens as he pushes open the door of the pub. 

It’s warm inside, and Calum says he’ll get them a table if Liam gets the drinks, which Liam doesn’t want to do until he sees a pretty girl tending the bar, and then he’s off like a shot. Calum squeezes between a bunch of tipsy men laughing far too loudly into a table in the back corner, wrinkling his nose as he steadies himself on the table and comes into contact with something sticky. Gross. 

Liam, inevitably, takes a good twenty minutes to come back with the drinks and a phone number tucked into his shirt pocket, grinning and eyes twinkling as he sets Calum’s pint down opposite him. 

“Took your fucking time,” Calum says, raising an eyebrow, and lifts the pint to his lips. 

“Did you fucking see her?” Liam says. “‘Course I took my bloody time.” He takes a sip from his own pint, and then nods at Calum’s. “You owe me for that.” 

“No I don’t,” Calum says. Liam scowls at him.

“That’s your fucking Christmas present then,” he says, and Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling into his beer.

They drink in comfortable silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Calum’s enjoying the warmth of the pub, the familiarity, the way it feels a little like home. He wonders whether Sydney would feel foreign to him now, whether he’d still love the feeling of the warm sand under his feet at Christmas. 

“We used to go to the beach at Christmas,” he says, without thinking. Liam shoots him a strange look, before his face clears. 

“Oh, ‘s all the wrong way round down there, innit?” he says, like he’s just remembered. “Must be weird for you, Christmas being cold.” Calum shrugs. 

“It was at first,” he says. “I’m used to it now.” 

“Oh aye?” Liam sounds genuinely interested, so Calum carries on. 

“Yeah,” he says, with another shrug. “I never saw snow until I moved here.” 

“Did it freak you out?” Liam asks. “Seeing things all white, and that.” Calum blinks at him. 

“What?” 

“Well, if you’d never seen snow, what’d you think all the white stuff was?”

“I knew what snow _was,_ you fucking idiot,” Calum says incredulously. “Fucking hell.” 

“Well, how the fuck am I meant to know that?” Liam says defensively. 

“You ever seen a camel? You think camels don’t exist?” 

“ _Yeah,_ but-”

“You thought I didn’t know what _snow_ was?” 

“How the fuck am I meant to know what they do and don’t teach you in Australia?” Liam demands, and Calum snorts and shakes his head. 

“You’re fucking unbelievable,” Calum says, even though Liam thinking Calum didn’t know what snow was until he moved to the UK is entirely believable. Liam scowls, but it’s good-natured. 

“Fuck you,” he says. “You wait, I’m going to fucking leave you in Australia when we tour there.” 

“You wouldn’t last a minute without me,” Calum says confidently. “Who’ll save you from the bities?” 

“The fucking what? Bikeys?” 

“Or the freshies and salties?” 

“What? Those aren’t words. You’re fucking making this up, you are.” Calum laughs, and Liam folds his arms, resting his elbows on the table.

“Watch it,” Calum says, nodding at his elbows. “Table’s sticky.” Liam looks down, and grimaces, unsticking himself from the table. 

“Couldn’t’ve told me that before, could you, you prick?” he grumbles, dusting off his elbows, like it’s going to get rid of the stale beer. 

“Didn’t know you were going to put your fucking elbows down, did I?” Calum says, and Liam just sticks two fingers up at him as he reaches for his drink again, making Calum grin in response and wink at him over the rim of his own glass. 

They drink in silence for a while, listening to the chatter in the pub as they let the cosy atmosphere and the drinks warm them from the inside out. It’s nice, Calum thinks, downing the last of his pint. He hasn’t been alone with Liam in God knows how long, been stuck on tour buses and in planes with him and at least five other people for far too long, and he realises just how much he’s really missed his one-on-one time with Liam, the easy comfort of a friendship that both of them fall into without even thinking about it, the security of knowing their lives are irrevocably intertwined now. It’s nice that they don’t have to speak, that they can just sit here and drink each other in, just exist alongside each other in quiet peace.

Liam’s not usually this quiet for long, though, usually can’t contain his incessant energy for more than three minute bursts at a time, but Calum knows better than to push. There’s something there, but Liam will say it when he’s ready to say it, and not a moment sooner. Calum’s been burnt one too many times by his own good intentions in that area, so he just sits back, pushes his glass away from himself and waits. It only takes another few minutes of Liam staring down at the bottom of his glass, brows furrowed and deep in thought, until he suddenly says:

“Noel’s moving to London.” The penny drops. 

Ah. 

“Is he?” Calum says, although really, he’s not that surprised. They’re getting somewhere, and Manchester’s not exactly the place for an up-and-coming musician to be based. It’s been at the back of his own mind, but he’s been pushing it aside, preoccupied with too many other more pressing issues to worry about the logistics of moving that far out. 

“Yeah,” Liam says, still staring at the bottom of his glass. 

“You knew he would,” Calum says, trying to make it as gentle as possible. 

“I know,” Liam says. He doesn’t sound as upset about it as Calum had expected, actually. “He’s going to look at houses tomorrow.” Shit. London’s big, though, isn’t it? What are the odds that he’ll bump into Noel? 

“Did he say where?” Calum asks, hoping it comes out casual. He wishes he had another pint in front of him, wanting something to do with his hands and feeling just how sober he is all of a sudden, so used to either being on a high or a comedown. 

“Yeah, but fuck if I remember,” Liam says, with a shrug. “I’m going with him. Cunt’s making me get up at eight to catch the train.” Oh, fucking brilliant. _Two_ Gallaghers to avoid in London, not just one. Is it too late to call Michael and reschedule? Probably; his mum’ll be listening if he makes a phone call when he gets back from the pub, and he doesn’t want to deal with all those questions. It does explain, though, why Liam doesn’t seem all too torn up about Noel moving so far away; Noel allowing Liam to come and look around with him is a silent acknowledgement that he knows Liam’ll be spending more time there than he will at home, most likely, so it’s got to be a place he likes too. 

“You’re a fucking scrounger,” Calum tells him, knowing Liam will know what he’s talking aout, and the ghost of a smile crosses Liam’s lips, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he plays with the rim of his glass. Calum frowns. He’s missing something.

“What?” he asks, and Liam shrugs, a little uncomfortably. He’s feeling something he’s not sure how to articulate, then, something he can’t channel into punches or barbed words. It’s something to do with Noel, because that’s the only topic he never knows how to approach while knowing exactly how to navigate it with his eyes shut and his hands tied behind his back, but it’s not something that Noel’s done, or Calum would be fucking hearing about it, and it’s not something that Liam’s done, or Calum would also be fucking hearing about it, but from Noel. It’s got to be something else, something that Noel doesn’t know about yet, something internal for Liam. Something about him moving to London, maybe, since he’s managed to bring that part up. Something that Liam feels about Noel moving to London, something that’s making him hesitant about accepting that he’s going to be spending a lot of time at Noel’s new place-

Oh. 

“He’s not doing it to get away from you, Liam,” Calum says, and Liam swallows, finger stilling on the rim of his glass for a split second, and Calum watches a little apprehensively as two conflicting emotions flash across Liam’s face; anger, irritated and embarrassed at the fact that Calum’s just called him out on it, and vulnerability, afraid and wanting Calum’s reassurance. Calum knows Liam better than almost anyone, and even he can’t ever tell which way it’s going to go. Luckily for him, though, Liam seems to struggle with himself for a moment before he exhales heavily, and slumps back in his chair.

“You don’t know that,” he says.

“I do,” Calum says. “He’s your brother, Liam.” Liam looks pained at that. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But- y’know. After LA.” He doesn’t say anything else - probably doesn’t know how or what to say - but Calum gets it. Everything had changed after Whiskey-a-Go-Go, shifted a few centimetres to the left, and even though everything’s okay again, it’s a different kind of okay to before. 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Calum says, because it wasn’t. 

“Wasn’t it? I was a right cunt.” 

“You’re always a right cunt,” Calum says, but he doesn’t mean it unkindly, or even teasingly. He means _that’s just how you are, and we’re all still here, aren’t we?_ “And anyway, so was Noel.” Liam has to concede there, tilts his head to indicate _yeah, I s’pose._

“I dunno,” he says, still staring steadfastly at his empty glass. “Maybe he just needs a break from me.” 

“He always needs a break from you,” Calum says. “But he never takes one.” 

“Took one in LA.” 

“Yeah, and then he came back,” Calum says. Liam seems to mull the words over, let them roll around in his mind, see how they feel, but Calum can see from the look on his face that they aren’t quite enough. 

“Maybe you should get your own place in London,” Calum suggests. Liam looks up for the first time, brow furrowed. “Then you could be close, but not too close.” Liam’s brow stays furrowed, but he hums thoughtfully. 

“You think?” he says, sounding a little uncertain. Liam moving out of Manchester _is_ quite a big step, the city etched into his veins like none of the rest of them, but it makes sense. And, Calum thinks, they’ll probably all have to move to London, eventually. It might be better to get it done at the same time as Noel, to have someone who knows how to navigate Liam’s inevitable misplaced temper tantrums at the fucking movers or traffic or furniture shops when he’s really just stressed about the change.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “It’d do you good, anyway, being on your own. Probably do you and Noel a world of good too, not living on top of each other all the time.” Liam scrunches his face up, looking ten years younger than he is, like the annoying little kid that Noel must see him as, and then sighs heavily and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. Yeah. Might have a look myself tomorrow, then.” Calum swallows. _Not in Camden,_ he thinks as loudly as possible, in case Liam’s psychic. 

“Yeah, do that,” he says out loud. Liam nods again, a little more decisively this time, clearly not listening to Calum’s thoughts, and then grins at Calum, bright and easy, like the past five minutes hadn’t happened at all. 

“You’re getting the next round,” he says, and Calum sighs, all long-suffering, but heaves himself out of his seat, forgetting that the table’s sticky and squawking when he puts his hands down on it to support himself. Liam laughs delightedly, like there’s nothing in the fucking world that brings him more joy than Calum’s misfortune, and Calum scowls good-naturedly and flips him off as he heads in the direction of the bar. 

Well, he thinks, as he jogs down the steps leading up to their seating area and weaves through tables of increasingly tipsy old men laughing far too loudly. At least Liam’s sorted. And London really _is_ big, right? Must be twice the size of Manchester, at least. And he’ll be in Michael’s house, anyway, won’t he? There’s no way he’ll see Noel and Liam there. 

Yeah, he thinks, flagging down the bartender. It’ll be fucking fine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh end notes i never do this very exciting however i didn't wanna put this in the notes at the beginning just in case because technically its a spoiler but that blur/oasis interview...is real...noel moved to london and liam moved down to follow him 6 weeks later...when i said the canon fits it fucking fits the fic just writes itself


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay firstly i am SO sorry to everyone whos been leaving lovely comments on the previous chapters i'm so far behind on catching up with comments but i PROMISE i'm catching up in the next few days 
> 
> now onto the important things. i still fancy noel gallagher what's new there i don't see this changing any time soon i've been listening to if i had a gun on repeat for like 3 days straight now this man seriously needs to come and shake my hand i've paid his gas bill for like 30 years straight at this point 
> 
> i'm also thinking of posting all the fics i've written on tumblr and haven't posted here over to my ao3 in some kind of collection? i have a lot of drabbles ("drabbles" they're all like 1.5k but what the fuck do you expect from me look at this fic. on that note i said the other night that i thought this fic was going to be 8k and the two immediate responses to that were 'helen are you serious' and 'helen you absolute clown') and some other fics that i just haven't posted here because they didn't feel Official enough but i'm thinking about it anyway where would i be w/o my cheeky plug come and follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) :) i actually just realised i didnt plug myself in my last chapter though who am i...thats how you can tell the heatwave was seriously getting to me 
> 
> as always! enormous thank you to the biggest sweetheart of them all sam you are the light of my life and of this fic firstly i cannot believe you're still putting up with it after this long secondly i cannot stress enough how much i love having you in the doc this is like a team effort teamwork really does make the dream work apparently secondly i'm still thinking about the other day when you said seeing me highlight that much text in the doc makes you nervous idk why it just sent me and also a big thank u to this fics one and only cheerleader meg i adore u and the fact that u still care about this fic is honestly part of its lifeblood thank u for being so sweet about this even if you dont respect me and my wonderful opinions abt noel vs luke generally :) <3

It would have been too much to expect that having to have The Conversation with Michael would be the only thing Calum would have to contend with. 

In fairness, the day doesn’t get off to too bad of a start. Calum can’t eat breakfast, stomach churning too much to swallow anything more than a glass of water before he runs out of the house at half-eight, just managing to make the bus to Piccadilly, but, unusually for British Rail, his train’s actually on time. It’s idling on the platform when Calum gets there, a few people dressed up in suits looking at their watches before getting on, like they can’t really believe it’s two whole minutes before the train leaves and it’s already there, and it’s not too busy inside. Calum finds himself an empty two-seater and slides in, putting one elbow on the slight ridge of the window and resting his chin in his hand as he stares out, trying to focus on the people milling around on the opposite platform rather than the uncomfortable lightness of his stomach. 

The train leaves on time too, pulls itself out of Piccadilly with heaves and groans, all rattling and hissing, but then they’re on their way, and Calum watches as the industrial sites and red-brick houses fade into flat, green fields. It starts raining somewhere past Leamington Spa, or maybe Milton Keynes, but Calum doesn’t mind, picking out specific raindrops and watching them as they trickle down the window. Someone’s etched  _ COCK _ into the glass - or is it plastic? Calum’s never sure - and the raindrops sliding past it make it look oddly artistic, like something Calum thinks he might find in the Whitworth. He’s so entranced by it, watching the droplets framing the second C, that he doesn’t realise they’re in London until people start standing up and gathering their things together, and the train starts slowing as it pulls into Euston. 

Calum hasn’t got much to gather, but pats his pocket to make sure his wallet’s in there all the same, pulls his coat closer around himself and shoves his hands in his pockets as he stands up, smiling politely at the woman that gestures for him to go ahead of her. The crowd of people that have gathered by the door are slowly starting to trickle through it, jostling impatiently as they wait for an elderly man to make his way off the train, and Calum just shuffles along with them, swallowing to try and clear some of the dryness in his mouth. He’s here, now. He’s in London. This is it. 

Euston’s big, impersonal, has none of the charm of Piccadilly - not that any of London does, really, Calum thinks - and he joins one of the queues by the dirty ticket barriers, fumbling in his pockets for his ticket that hadn’t even been checked once on the entire train journey down as it slowly shuffles forwards. The machine doesn’t spit it back at him, just swallows it down and flings itself open for him to walk through, and he hesitates for a moment before going through. It feels like crossing some kind of threshold, but he’s swept up in the bustling hordes of self-important-looking Londoners weaving in and out of each other before he has too much time to think about it. They always seem to be in a permanent state of transience, Calum thinks, as he manages to duck out of the crowd and lean against WH Smith; he’s never seen a Londoner look like they’re actually where they want to be, always seem to be heading somewhere else. 

It’s getting close to lunchtime but Calum’s still not hungry, feeling a little sick with anticipation. Or maybe it’s just travel-sickness. Or maybe it’s the adrenaline that spikes every time he thinks about the fact he’ll be near Michael again, that Michael will be within reach. He tries not to dwell on that as he joins the crowd heading for the tube, digging around in his pocket for some change to buy a ticket. He’s not even sure what he needs - a single should do it, right? He’s not sure how returns work, whether he’ll need to use it by a specific time, not even sure what time he’ll be leaving Michael’s. London off-peak might be different to Manchester off-peak. 

There’s even a queue for the ticket machines - fucking hell, is there anywhere in London that he  _ doesn’t _ have to queue for - but Calum’s slight irritation is quickly replaced by a cold rush of fear when he hears an unmistakable voice shout: “Eeyar, ‘s that Calum? Hey, Cal! Cal!” 

Oh,  _ shit. _

For a split second, Calum dithers between turning around and legging it, but by the time he’s glanced over at possible exit routes, a hand’s clapping on his shoulder and pulling him around anyway. 

It’s Liam, with Noel in tow, because of fucking course it is. Jesus Christ. It’s like the universe is spitting sign after sign at Calum, flashing red neon warnings that say  _ don’t be a cunt, you owe it to the two of them, don’t go behind their fucking backs,  _ only escalating with every one that Calum ignores. Well, he thinks, a little bitterly, as the guilt that’s been quietly gnawing at his stomach flashes its sharp teeth. The universe shouldn’t have sent him Michael in the first place, then, should it?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Liam says happily, not sounding more than a little curious. Noel, though, is frowning, having the answer to the equation and one constant, and trying to figure out the coefficient and the variable.

“Just...running a few errands,” Calum says, and hopes it doesn’t sound as evasive to Liam and Noel as it does to him. “Mum wanted some stuff done.” It’s not exactly implausible, is it? It’s a week ‘til Christmas; it’d make perfect sense if Calum’s mum wanted some stuff done. It might not explain why she’d need it doing in London, but Calum hopes that that part of it won’t get prodded at too hard by either of the brothers, and if it does, chucking in a few  _ embassy _ s and  _ work visa _ s should do the trick. 

“Why didn’t you say?” Liam says, but he doesn’t sound upset, just curious. Calum shrugs, and steps forward to the ticket machine as the lady in front of him walks away, buying himself time to come up with a semi-plausible answer. Noel and Liam follow, much to the annoyance of the guy behind Calum in the queue, who tuts and mutters something under his breath that just earns him a lazy two-fingered salute from Liam. 

“Only found out last night,” Calum says, which is absolute bullshit, because he hadn’t got back from the pub until long after last call, and his mum goes to bed around ten. Liam seems to have forgotten that, though, because he just nods, and turns to the machine. 

“What d’you reckon we need, then, eh?” he says, glancing over his shoulder at Noel, never mind that Calum’s the one who’d queued for the fucking machine, and all. 

“Probably best to get a travelcard,” Noel answers. “Got a lot of places to visit.” 

“Where’re you going?” Calum asks, as casually as he can manage. Maybe a little too casually, because Noel’s eyes narrow fractionally, but then Liam responds as he’s stabbing buttons on the ticket machine. 

“Hampstead Heath, wasn’t it? And I’m looking in Kentish Town.” Well. Calum has no fucking idea where those are, but at least they aren’t Camden. 

“Why’d you go and tell him to follow me down here, eh?” Noel asks, throwing Calum an exasperated look, but there’s no heat behind his eyes or his words. 

“You’d rather he sleep on your floor every night?” Calum says, arching an eyebrow. “Done you a fucking favour, mate.” Noel grins, inclining his head a little in concession.

“On the floor?” Liam says, sounding a little incensed, and holds his hand out for Noel to give him some money. “I’d be sleeping in the fucking bed, me. Our kid can kip on the floor. Tiny cocker can probably curl up on an cushion or summat, anyway.”

“Get fucked, you, ‘s my fucking bed. And why’m I paying for your fucking ticket?” Noel demands, even as he’s digging in his pocket for change. 

“You get more of the royalties,” Liam says, and Noel rolls his eyes as he slaps a selection of coins in Liam’s hand. 

“That’s three travelcards, then,” Liam says, turning back to the machine, and Noel makes a noise of outrage, and tugs at Liam’s shoulder as he starts slotting the coins into the machine. 

“Hang on a minute,” he says indignantly, but Liam shakes him off, pushing coin after coin in until the machine makes a groaning sound and starts churning out tickets. “Cheeky cunt,” Noel grumbles, and Liam throws him a winning smile as he presses Calum’s ticket into his hand. 

“Aye,” he says happily, and steps away from the machine, Calum following in his wake, not wanting to listen to Noel grumbling to himself about Liam or risk him yanking Calum’s ticket out of his hand.

“What about my money?” Noel demands, because the machine’s spitting out coins now, and Liam just shrugs, already engrossed in a map of the Northern line. Noel flips him off anyway,  and then scoops the assortment of coins out of the machine and sticks them in his pocket as he wanders over to where Calum and Liam are stood. 

“Where do we need to get off?” Liam asks, and Noel frowns at the map. 

“Hampstead, I think,” he says, and Liam nods, before turning to Calum.

“Where’re you off to?” he asks. Calum hesitates, wondering whether he should lie or not, and then realises as he’s squinting at the map that they’ll probably be on the same tube, so he can’t. Now that he’s looking closely, he’s realising Kentish Town looks uncomfortably close to Camden - it’s the next stop after Camden Town - but given how fucking massive London is, that should be fine, right?

“Camden,” Calum says, a little reluctantly. 

“Oh,” Liam says, and shrugs. “Alright.” He doesn’t seem to think anything of it, and for once neither does Noel, who’s too busy patting his pockets and frowning.

“Where’s my ticket?” Noel says, as Liam starts for the ticket barriers, and Liam holds his hand up as he walks, waving two tickets in the air. Noel jogs after him, reaching up and trying to snatch one of the tickets out of Liam’s hand. “Give it here, you prick. How’m I meant to get through the barrier?” 

“Not my problem,” Liam says, but he lets Noel take one of the tickets when he gets up to the barrier, sticking it in and forcing himself through when it swings open. “Fucking hell, these things are small, innit? Who are they made for, Noely G?” 

“Fuck off,” Noel tells him, but Calum can see the small, fond smile playing at his lips as they start down the escalator. 

Liam’s absolutely buzzing with energy, even more so than usual, pointing out adverts on the wall as they pass and commenting on what people on the other escalator are wearing and asking  _ how old d’you reckon the tube is, then? Hundred? Two hundred? It’s proper deep, innit? How far underground d’you reckon we are?  _ until Noel cuffs him upside the head irritably and says  _ shut up, Liam, for fuck’s sake.  _

“Are we northbound or southbound?” Liam asks, stopping abruptly in front of one of the huge maps and making at least three people behind them tut and swerve pointedly around them. 

“North,” Noel says, dragging Liam towards the platform by the elbow. Calum throws the map another quick glance just to double-check - yeah, he’s northbound too - and then follows in their wake, letting their quiet bickering wash over him as he gulps in the hot, sticky air of the underground, hoping it’ll do something to counteract the way his stomach feels like a block of ice, cold and heavy in his abdomen. It seems to get heavier with every step, like it’s trying to stop him being able to get himself onto the tube and lean against the door next to Liam and Noel, who are now arguing about whether it’d be better to have a Tesco or a Sainsbury’s nearby. He’s not sure whether the fact that Liam and Noel are here, not a care in the world, buying Calum tickets and joking around with him not knowing what he’s here for, or the prospect of the conversation with Michael is making him feel worse. He knows he has to do this, knows that he and Michael can’t toe the tentative line they’ve been dragging themselves along forever, but doesn’t want to think about what the possibility of crossing it might mean. There’s no going back from that, and Calum’s not sure he’s going to like what he finds on the other side. 

Camden’s only two stops away, and much as Calum wants to put off getting there, he’s sort of glad it’s not far, because he always forgets how fucking  _ loud _ the tube is. He does enough damage to his ears in his profession, and he feels out of place being the only person wincing at the rattling that’s probably pushing legal decibel levels. Even Liam and Noel don’t seem to care, just raising their voices to shout over the sound of the carriages hurtling along the tracks, enjoying their latest spat too much to care about anything else.

“This is me,” Calum says, when the tube pulls into Camden Town and starts to slow. 

“When’re you heading back?” Noel asks, and Calum shrugs. He hadn’t picked a specific train back to Manchester, just bought an open return. He doesn’t know whether Michael wants to pull him in to shout abuse at him for half an hour and then kick him out again, or spend half a day talking about everything that’s happened in the past five years.

“Not sure,” he says. Liam nods inattentively and turns back to Noel, but Noel cocks his head a little, eyes flicking to the doors as they open. 

“Alright, well,” he says. “I’ll probably call you tomorrow.” Calum nods, ducking out of the doors and throwing both of them a quick wave, hoping his nervousness isn’t written all over his face, the combination of  _ shit, shit, I’m here, I’m here _ and  _ what the fuck does Noel want to call me to say that he can’t say right now? _

Liam’s already turned back to Noel and started saying something before the doors have shut, but Noel’s eyes linger on Calum for a minute, something Calum can’t quite pinpoint on his face. He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, caught up in the crowd as they make their way up the escalator and out of the station, blinking once he’s standing in the road and trying to remember which way his dad’s old London A-Z had told him to go. It was two lefts, he knows that, but was that after a right? Or was the right after the second left? He should have written it down, really. Although, given how today’s gone, the piece of paper would probably have blown out of his pocket and straight into Liam’s face, or something, big red letters that say  _ Michael Clifford (from Blur, y’know, my ex)’s Address  _ on the top. 

He decides to just take the two lefts first, thinking he can always just ask someone if he gets really lost, and it turns out to be the right decision, because he’s on Michael’s street after about ten minutes of pushing through angry-looking Londoners walking at the speed of light. It’s a smaller street, a little tucked away, surprisingly quiet for the fact it’s just off a main road, lined with identical Georgian houses. Number thirty-nine, Michael had said. That’s thirty-one, thirty-three, thirty-five, thirty-seven-

Thirty-nine.

Calum stares up at it for a moment. It looks exactly the same as the other houses on the street, a house Calum usually wouldn’t bother glancing twice at, except it’s got his childhood best friend, his first love, his fucking competition inside it. It seems to loom a little more than the houses either side of it, and a sense of foreboding creeps around the edge of Calum’s veins, constricting his lungs a little. He doesn’t fucking know what to expect. He doesn’t know what Michael wants. 

Calum takes a deep breath as he steps up to the door, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and rings the doorbell. He holds his breath as he waits, feeling like he really needs to piss, and tries not to hop from foot to foot in nervous anticipation when he finally hears the sound of someone heading for the door and sees a figure looming behind the frosted glass. 

The door opens, and Michael blinks at him. 

“Hi,” he says. His voice sounds different in person, smoother and richer than Calum remembers - but then again, he’d been off his fucking head the last time he’d seen Michael. His eyes are greener than Calum remembers, too, still with a hint of blue, blinking a little hesitantly at him from behind dark lashes. He’s dressed in jeans and a blue jumper, one that Calum hasn’t seen before, and he looks so oddly out of place here, on a residential street in the heart of London. Something about it makes Calum’s head spin even more than the first time he’d seen Michael on stage, or when he’d seen him in that magazine, or at the awards show.  _ He shouldn’t be here, _ his brain is trying to say, throwing up memories of Michael in shorts and a singlet on the beach, while his eyes are saying  _ but he  _ is _ here. And he looks fucking good, too. _

“Hi,” Calum says, when he remembers to speak. He clears his throat, trying to clear out the embarrassment. Fucking hell; great first impression after what, six months?

“Come in,” Michael says, and steps aside, holding the door open. Calum throws him a polite smile and heads inside, hesitating just past the door as Michael clicks it shut again. 

“Um, should I-” he says, gesturing at his shoes.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Michael says, a little apologetically. “If you don’t mind.” Calum shakes his head - it’s Michael’s house, why the fuck should he mind? - and kicks off his shoes, taking his time arranging them next to the blue-and-white striped Adidas trainers placed a little haphazardly next to the radiator, before straightening back up again, looking back over at Michael, who’s staring at him. He feels strangely naked standing in Michael’s hallway in his socks, a little disarmed, like he’s just willingly carved out a chink in his own armour. 

Michael looks away quickly, cheeks a little pink, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been, and turns around, walking off down the hallway.

“D’you want something to drink?” he asks, heading into a room to the right. Calum follows him in; it’s the living room, big and light and beige and decorated by someone that definitely wasn’t Michael, all damask walls and sun-and-moon decor. 

“Uh, no, I’m good, thanks,” Calum says, hovering near the sofa. Michael gestures at him to sit, and hesitates for a moment, clearly dithering between sitting down next to Calum or on the overstuffed armchair opposite him, before heading for the armchair and curling up on it. It’s probably for the best, Calum thinks, as he arranges himself on the sofa. His skin’s already prickling at being in the same room as Michael, fingers itching to reach out and touch what used to be his.

“I thought we’d go out for lunch,” Michael says. “Probably better than me trying to cook.” Calum feels his lips twitch at that - it’s good to know that hasn’t changed. Michael being in a famous British band feels more realistic than Michael knowing how to cook anything more complicated than pasta. 

“Fine by me,” Calum says, clasping his hands on his lap and then unclasping them again. It feels so horribly formal, being sat like this with Michael, stone-cold sober and six feet apart. It feels so fucking wrong. 

Michael sighs, and casts his eyes down at his feet. 

“So,” he says, and Calum’s stomach flips. The Talk. 

“So,” Calum echoes. He hopes the lump in his throat isn’t audible. 

“I don’t even know where we should start,” Michael admits. “There’s- there’s so much.” He pauses, and then smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Why don’t you tell me about Oasis?” 

“What?” Calum’s a little taken aback. He was expecting  _ why the  _ fuck _ did you stop writing back, you absolute cunt, tell me why I shouldn’t deck you right fucking now. _ Maybe he’s been spending too much time with Liam. 

“Well, y’know,” Michael says, waving his hand a little awkwardly. “I only know what I’ve read in the papers. Last I heard from you you were working in construction.” 

“Oh,” Calum says. “Yeah. Uh. Well. I dunno, really. Bonehead started this band, and Liam knew him through a mate, and then their singer dropped out and Liam managed to join somehow, and they needed a bassist, so.” He shrugs, a little uncomfortably. “And then Noel came back from roadie-ing for the Inspiral Carpets, and Liam got him to join, too. And- well. That’s about it, really.” He’s not sure what else there is to say, but it feels a little clinical, like he’s reading Michael an excerpt from his autobiography, or something. 

“You went to school with Liam, right?” Michael asks, and Calum nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. “We were Chemistry partners. Gallagher and Hood, y’know.” Michael hums, like he’s thinking about it, and Calum just waits, tries not to hold his breath in anticipation as Michael turns the information over and over in his mind. Fuck, he hates this, hates the fact that he’s shuffling forwards with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back, no way of knowing whether he’s walking in the right direction.

“I like him,” Michael admits after a moment, and Calum can’t help but smile at that. 

“Yeah,” he says, and he hears the fondness and pride in his own voice. It’s sort of impossible _not_ to like Liam, really. He’s a cunt, but he does it so well and so earnestly and with such an innocent expression on his face that you can’t really hate him for it. Well, if you aren’t Noel, at least. And Michael and Liam both have that kind of anarchy to them, that same spark of joy lighting up their eyes when they spot something chaotic happening. “You’d get on. Well, if-” Calum cuts himself off, smile suddenly dropping off his face as the all-too-familiar guilt churns in his stomach. _If he didn’t hate you on principle._

Michael doesn’t seem to have thought anything of it, though, just nods a little thoughtfully, and Calum can see from the way his eyebrows are drawn that he’s moved past that, isn’t thinking about Liam anymore. Sure enough, after a few seconds of silence, Michael opens his mouth again, and asks:

“What about Noel?” There’s something a little calculating in his eyes, and his tone a touch too casual, and Calum frowns. 

“What about him?” Michael shrugs, the smoothness of the movement belied by the way his shoulders stay a little hunched. 

“What’s he like?” Calum opens his mouth to respond -  _ he’s exactly what he seems like _ \- and then realises that that’s not quite true, and closes it again. Noel’s exactly what he seems, and then a little bit more, and also a little bit less. 

“Complicated,” he says eventually, and Michael cocks his head. 

“He’s a cunt,” he says, which, honestly, is a fair enough assessment of Noel Gallagher. 

“So’s Liam,” Calum points out, and Michael nods. 

“Yeah.” There’s a moment of awkward silence, and Calum feels he might have been wrong-footed by Michael somehow, like there was a second, unspoken part to that question that he missed. It’s too late now, though, no matter how much he replays it in his mind - the way Michael had looked at him, the way he’d shrugged - so instead, Calum clears his throat, and asks:

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I read that you knew Graham through someone back home?” Michael smiles for real this time, and Calum tries not to let it hurt, that he’s smiling about Graham like that and couldn’t manage it for Calum. It’s not like Calum’s done anything to deserve it, is it? 

“Through Luke, actually,” Michael says, all conversationally, like it’s perfectly normal that one of Calum’s closest friends from Sydney knew Graham Coxon and never thought to mention it. Calum stares at him. That makes absolutely no fucking sense. 

“What?” he says. “How- what? Luke knows Graham?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. “The Hemmings’ went on a holiday a few years ago - that cruise, I think? Remember, y’know, the one where Jack thought he got that girl pregnant?” Calum nods - yeah, he remembers that one. Luke had been beside himself, although Calum still thinks at least thirty percent of that was because it was his ticket into Ashton’s arms. “Yeah, and you know what Liz is like, making conversation with anything that moves. They ended up talking to Graham’s family over dinner, and Graham and Luke became mates over the rest of the cruise, swapped numbers and sort of stayed in contact.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to sound bitter. It feels strangely unsettling to know that Luke knows Graham, like the solid image he’d had of his past life is being shaken up. “He never mentioned.” Michael shrugs. 

“He never mentioned to me either,” he says. “Not until I said-” he cuts himself off. “Well,” he says carefully after a moment of awkward silence. “When I decided to move here.” Calum swallows. 

He’s wondered, in the moments that he’s had time to think about anything more than the permanent guilt swimming around in his stomach and the sickening feeling that seems to creep its way around the edges of everything to do with Michael, what had made Michael move to the UK. He’s even wondered, in brief moments of weakness, whether it had had something to do with him. After all, Michael had always said he’d come here to see Calum, hadn’t he? Calum had just never stopped to think that maybe he’d meant coming here for good, for more than just a visit. 

But then Calum had stopped writing as often, and Michael had stopped sending as many letters back, and the weed and booze in Calum’s veins had made him forget that Michael had ever said he’d fly over, and so the brief moments of weakness pass and Calum thinks  _ no, he wouldn’t’ve done that. Not in the state we were in.  _

(It doesn’t stop him wondering the same thing the next time he’s staring at himself in a cracked hotel mirror on a comedown, though, doesn’t stop the  _ what if _ s from floating around in his mind.) 

But since he’s here, he might as well ask. This is supposed to be all about sorting all of that shit out, isn’t it? Calum knows that they can’t move anywhere with the huge wall between them, knows that they’ve got to dismantle it brick by brick before they can see all the possible roads they could travel. So, he takes a deep breath, and says:

“Why  _ did _ you decide to move here?” Michael cocks his head and blinks at Calum, like he’s a little surprised Calum’s even asking.

“For you.” Fuck. 

A new guilt surges through Calum’s entire abdomen, something that isn’t as well-worn as his Noel-and-Liam guilt, making him dizzy with the suddenness with which it pulls all the blood from his head down to his stomach. Michael had moved here for Calum, even after Calum had stopped writing. Michael hadn’t forgotten; only Calum had.

“Oh,” Calum says, and it comes out barely more than a whisper. Michael looks away, cheeks burning. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles uncomfortably. “Well. Changed my mind after I got here, but stayed anyway.” Calum bites his lip.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said it, and probably the millionth time he’s thought it, but the words still trip off his tongue clumsily, like they weren’t rehearsed often enough, like maybe he should have made it a million-and-one.

“Are you?” The words are harsh, but Michael’s tone is soft, a little sad. 

“I am,” Calum says truthfully. “I- fuck. I’m a cunt, honestly. I just got so caught up in everything, in Noel and Liam and the drugs and the band, and-” he cuts himself off. He’s making excuses, and Michael deserves better than that. 

“You stopped caring,” Michael supplies before Calum has the chance to think about what he wants to say next, matter-of-fact, but Calum catches the tiny grimace that flits across his lips. 

“No,” Calum says hastily. “I just- I thought I did. Or maybe I just hoped I did. Or- I don’t know. But I saw you a few years ago, and I felt the same. And then I saw you this year, and I felt the same. So I don’t think I ever stopped.” He can’t bring himself to say  _ stopped caring, _ because it feels too revealing. He doesn’t know if he can actually admit out loud that he still cares about Michael, not with all the shame burning hot in his veins. It feels like something he should keep to himself, a burden he deserves to be laden with, the ball at the end of his chain of disgrace.

“You saw me a few years ago?” Michael says, frowning, and Calum’s stomach drops. Oh, fuck. He’s never told Michael that, has he? 

“Uh,” Calum says intelligently, and looks down at his feet. “Yeah. Ninety-two, I think. At the Boardwalk in Manchester.” Michael’s frown deepens, like he’s scanning through memories, trying to find the one he needs. 

“I didn’t know you were there,” he says after a minute, still frowning. 

“I didn’t know you were either,” Calum says. “I mean. I didn’t think it could be you.” Michael shifts, pulling his legs closer towards him, looking like he’s trying to fold in on himself. It looks defensive, and it makes Calum’s heart crack a little. Is it him doing that? Is that because of Calum?

“That was a shit gig,” Michael says after a moment, and the ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips, but he can tell that’s not what Michael really wants to say. 

“Wasn’t too bad,” Calum says. “We definitely played worse ones than that.” Michael huffs out a short laugh. 

“Yeah, like LA,” he says, and Calum’s lips manage to twitch in a tiny smile this time. Even though he knows it means nothing, something about the fact Michael remembers that, remembers how awful the gig had been and remembers that it had been in LA, makes Calum’s heart skip a beat. 

“Yeah, like LA,” he agrees, and Michael smiles back at him, something heavy and sad in his eyes. It’s sort of disconcerting to be able to tell what Michael’s feeling but not being able to place why, feels like Calum’s sat here with some kind of Michael-Mike hybrid. It just drives the past five years of distance home, makes Calum realise that the gap between the sofa and the armchair is bigger than he’d wanted to believe. 

Almost like he knows what Calum’s thinking, Michael’s lips hitch up in a small, mournful smile. 

“It’s been a long fucking time, hasn’t it?” he says, and his voice is saturated with so much melancholy that it makes Calum swallow, gulping in a breath of Michael’s air. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“I sort of keep forgetting,” Michael says. A slightly bitter laugh almost bubbles out of Calum, but he just about manages to force it down - he’s not sure how Michael can forget, when it’s the only thing that’s ever on Calum’s mind when they talk, when he can’t push it away for more than a few minutes at a time. 

“I don’t,” he says, and Michael frowns. 

“You don’t?” Calum shakes his head. He spends all his time trying his best not to think about the gulf between the two of them, trying to relegate it to some dusty corner of his mind, but it always rides back to the forefront of his thoughts on a wave of guilt. 

“It’s hard not to think about it,” Calum says, which is the closest he can get to saying  _ I spend all my time trying not to think about how you’ve changed. _

“I guess,” Michael says, with a tiny shrug. “Maybe I just don’t want to.” Calum gets that too.

"Maybe you're just better at it than me," Calum says, and Michael smiles, tinged with sadness. 

“Maybe,” he allows. “Or maybe I just want it more.” What? Wants  _ what _ more, to forget? To pretend-

Oh. 

“Oh,” Calum says, and his mouth is suddenly dry. Michael’s holding his gaze, forced defiance written all over his face, but Calum can still see past that, can still see the vulnerability in the way the corners of his lips are tilted down and the way he’s blinking a little too fast. 

Michael  _ wants _ this. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, and Calum can hear the heartache beneath the veneer of bravery. “That hasn’t changed, at least.” It’s a little bitter, and it makes Calum frown. What does Michael mean, that hasn’t changed? 

“What d’you mean?” Michael shrugs uncomfortably, his cheeks a little pink. 

“Well. Y’know. I always wanted you more,” he says, and his voice cracks on the  _ you. _ Calum stares at him for a moment, trying to wrap his head around what Michael's just said. 

He wants to say  _ no, you didn’t,  _ but he can’t. Calum had forgotten, and Michael hadn’t. And maybe now Calum wants Michael more than Michael wants him, can’t push Michael out of his mind where Michael can push Calum out of his, but that doesn’t change the fact that Calum had let Michael slip out of his mind to make room for Liam and Noel and drugs, while Michael had moved to the UK for him. And he can’t lie to Michael, can’t lie to himself either. 

“Maybe then,” he says. "But not anymore." Michael blinks at him. 

“You don’t know that,” he says. "You don't even know how I loved you."  Calum swallows, but it doesn’t go past the lump in his throat. 

“I loved you too,” he says. “I did. I really did.” 

“Not enough,” Michael says, and Calum winces, but doesn’t say anything. It’s true. He can’t have loved Michael enough, can’t have loved him well enough, if the Gallaghers and drugs and music and distance could fill the Michael-shaped hole in his heart. 

“Maybe,” he says, and the word sounds heavy and leaden. “But I was seventeen. I don’t think I really knew how to love.” 

“Do you now?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t- not since-” he stops, not wanting to say  _ I haven’t been in love since you, _ but Michael gets it anyway. 

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds a little warmer now, like he’s pleased to hear that. “Me either.” Calum’s heart flips, but, for the first time in almost the entire conversation, not unpleasantly.

“Oh,” he says, echoing Michael. He wonders whether the mild, tingly feeling spreading from his fingertips to his toes is echoing Michael too. 

“Well,” Michael says hastily. “I’m not, like. I didn’t stay single for you, or anything. I just- not like that.” Calum nods. He’s the same. It’s not like he hasn’t fucked hundreds of girls and guys in the past few years; he’s just never felt what he felt with Michael with anybody else. 

Suddenly, and a little guiltily, Noel’s face flashes in his mind’s eye. That’s the closest he’s ever got, a hollow echo of what he’d had with Michael. It had only been a night, one that Calum could almost pretend hadn’t happened if he didn’t hear Noel’s pretty little sounds playing whenever he harmonised with him onstage, but Calum knows if Liam hadn’t been on both their minds it could have blossomed into something more. They’d never spoken about it, and Noel would deny it if Calum ever asked, but he knows they both stopped themselves going further because neither of them wanted to lose Liam, the weird, brash little cunt more important to both of them than they were to each other. 

And now, Calum thinks, here he is, talking to his ex who happens to be his biggest competition, betraying both his best friends and his band, pitting his ex against his fling, pitting himself against the fucking lot of them. It makes his fucking head hurt, makes his eyes sting a little bit with something he thinks might be frustration but could be guilt, because that’s fucking all he seems to feel these days. Guilty for forgetting Michael, guilty for picking the habit of him back up again, guilty for going behind Liam and Noel’s backs, guilty, guilty, guilty. 

He grits his teeth and curls his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand, hard, hoping none of the shame and guilt in his veins is finding its way to the surface of his skin, betraying him with a blush or a visible, too-fast pulse. Michael’s watching him carefully, eyes searching Calum’s face for the little hints he still knows how to find, and it should maybe make Calum feel a lot more vulnerable than he already does, but instead, it settles him. Michael still knows Calum’s nooks and crannies, still knows where to look to see what he’s trying to hide, and it’s oddly comforting. Michael hasn’t forgotten a single inch of Calum, eyes flitting from the corners of his lips to the crease between his brows, and that’s got to mean something, right? 

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Michael says suddenly. “I never- I thought about it, sometimes, but it was never- y’know.” Calum doesn’t know. At all. He has no idea what Michael’s trying to say, but before he can ask, Michael’s continuing. “And then I saw you on a poster, looking cooler and older and hotter, and I started thinking. About seeing you again, I mean. I wondered if we’d ever bump into each other. And then Damon started saying you were our main competition, and I didn’t know how to tell him about us, and I thought you must know about Blur and you hadn’t said anything, not even hello, so. I just thought that was it.” He speaks half-stilted, half in a rush, like he’s got a hundred things to say but none of the words to say them in, or maybe none of the courage. 

“Did you want to?” Calum finds himself asking. 

“Did I want to what?”

“See me again.” Michael hesitates. 

“Yeah,” he says eventually, softly. “I was angry. I wanted to see you and show you how well I was doing without you.” Calum swallows. The words sting more than he thought they would. 

“Oh,” is all he can say. He thinks it probably says it all, anyway. 

“I thought I’d hate you,” Michael says. “I thought I’d see you and I’d be so furious. You made me-” he cuts himself off, and bites his lip, like he’s thinking about whether or not he wants to say it. Calum shifts, pulls his legs onto the sofa and wraps his hand around his ankle, holding himself in place. He can feel the tension of his muscles under his fingertips, strained and stiff and wanting to move, and it feels fitting, feels like the muscle of his legs is echoing the muscle of his heart, tight and uneasy. But, just like the muscle of his legs can’t slacken until Calum’s hand lets go, the muscle of his heart can’t relax until the grip around it is loosened, too. 

And Calum, loath though he is to do it, knows how to pry that iron fist off.

“Say it,” Calum says. “I- you- we should, like. Just get it all out.” He doesn’t want to, and he’s pretty sure it’s written all over his face, but he knows that they should. That’s the whole reason he’s here, after all, isn’t it? It would have been easy for him to put it off, to stay in Manchester, to say he was busy, but he’s here, because how can they ever move on if there are still things left to say? 

Michael nods, inhales deeply, and tries again. 

“You made me feel so worthless,” he says quietly, and Calum can’t help the small grimace that crosses his lips. “So rejected. Like I was nothing. You left, and suddenly I didn’t matter anymore. To you, to myself, to anyone. It was like I was only ever temporary to you.” Calum’s throat is dry, heart pounding at the words and somehow sinking at the same time. He’d never stopped to consider how Michael might have felt, so wrapped up in his own world. He’d never taken a moment to think about whether he might be hurting Michael. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks on the words. He doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything more. He feels it in his lungs, in his heart, in his stomach, in his fucking fingertips; the guilt, the shame, the remorse. Michael looks at him for a moment, and then casts his eyes back down to his feet with a small shrug. 

“I wasn’t, though,” he says, even more quietly than before. “Angry, I mean, when I saw you. I thought I’d be fucking livid. I had so many...uh, revenge fantasies, I guess you’d call them. I imagined seeing you again so many times, imagined what I’d say, how I’d feel, but…” he trails off. 

“But?” Michael shrugs again, staring steadfastly at his socks. 

“I saw you up on that stage at Glastonbury,” he says, “and I just felt-” he purses his lips, like he’s considering his next words. “Warm.” 

“Warm?”

“Warm.” Michael doesn’t elaborate, but Calum thinks he understands. It must take a lot, he thinks, for Michael to say that, to admit that instead of feeling angry, instead of all the hurt that’s been simmering for years, he’d felt something almost positive. Calum doesn’t know whether he would have had the courage to say that in Michael’s position, to bare himself and make himself vulnerable like that.

“I didn’t think I’d feel like this either,” he admits. A concession for a concession. Glastonbury in reverse. 

“Like what?” Michael asks. 

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t want to say it. 

“I don’t.” Michael wants him to say it. Fuck’s sake. But he deserves it, really, doesn’t he, after all this?

“Fond.” Michael blinks at him for a second. 

“Fond?” he asks, voice wavering slightly. Calum shrugs, more of a defensive movement than anything else. 

“Yeah, I guess. I dunno. I didn’t think I’d still care as much as I do.” Michael cocks his head, like he’s considering it. 

“That’s why you wrote that song about me,” he says, and Calum blinks. 

“You heard it?” He can’t help the surprise in his tone. Michael’s never mentioned it, so Calum had just assumed he hadn’t heard it. It’s not like he was about to be the one to fucking bring it up, is it?

“‘Course I heard it,” Michael says, and for the first time in a while his lips twitch in what looks almost like a tiny smile. “You fucking named it for me.” That’s true. Drunk Calum has never made the best decisions. 

(But sober Calum was the one who’d looked the other way.)

“What about the one you wrote?” Calum says, deflecting. “The one about collapsing in love, making it to the end.” 

“What about it?” 

“Well, y’know,” Calum says, waving his hands around vaguely, because he’s not really sure what he’s asking. “When did you write it?” 

“Years ago,” Michael says. “Two, three, maybe?” 

“Why?” 

“I was throwing all your letters out.” Oh. 

“Oh,” Calum says. He hadn’t been expecting that. It smarts, but he deserves it. He’s not even sure if he has many of Michael’s left, and the ones he does have will have survived by accident, not on purpose. 

“Yeah, well,” Michael says, sounding a little embarrassed. “Alex always says the best way to get over someone is to forget about them.” 

“Did you?” Calum can’t help but ask. 

“Did I what?”

“Forget about me.” Michael hesitates. 

“Almost.” Calum can live with that. 

They sit in silence for a moment, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels a little heavy, a little sombre, but Calum can feel both himself and Michael in it, and Michael’s not pulling away, not holding himself back. It’s almost nice, he thinks, to co-exist like this with Michael, neither of them pulling or pushing. It’s definitely better than it had been ten minutes ago, at least. 

“What about you?” Michael asks after a minute. “Why’d you write Columbia?” 

“I was drunk,” Calum says honestly. “And I saw a picture of you in a magazine.” Michael scrunches his nose up in the way that he does when he’s thinking about something, and it makes something sharp shoot through Calum’s heart, that he still recognises that. 

“I like it,” Michael says, after a moment. 

“Like what?” 

“Columbia.” Calum swallows. 

“Yeah?” he says, a little shyly. He’d never even really expected Michael to hear it, and it’s fucking embarrassing, the drunken words swimming to the forefront of his mind as he watches Michael’s eyes search his own for the answer to a question Calum doesn’t know. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, and Calum sees the corners of his lips twitch in what looks like the tiniest of smiles. “It’s a good song.” 

“Well. Thanks,” Calum says, and then, in a brief moment of courage: “It’s your song, so. I’m glad you like it.” The tiny smile turns into a small smile, and Calum sees the corner of Michael’s eyes crinkle a little, and his heart almost stills in his chest. He didn’t know he could still do that to Michael. 

“I’m glad it’s mine,” Michael says quietly, even shyer than Calum, and maybe Calum’s imagining it, but there seems to be a pink tinge to the top of his cheeks. He really is fucking pretty, Calum thinks dimly; white teeth sinking into a full pink lip, long lashes covering his blue-green eyes. Calum doesn’t know he ever managed to fucking forget that. 

They sit in silence for a minute, a little tense and a little uneasy, until Michael sighs, sags a little, and rests his head against his hand.

“Where do we go from here?” he says. Calum swallows, and shrugs.  _ Wherever you want, _ he wants to say.  _ I’ll take anything I can get. _

“I don’t know,” he says instead. “What do you want?” Michael hesitates. 

“I’m not- I don’t-” he cuts himself off, and sighs. “I want this,” he says, and gestures between the two of them. “Us. Whatever that is. We’re both different people now, so I don’t- I don’t know whether it’ll work like _that_ again. I want to give it a chance, though. But I can’t pretend the past five years didn’t happen.” Calum nods. That’s fair. He doesn’t think he can pretend the past five years didn’t happen either, can’t fucking forget it in the lines on Michael’s eyes and forehead that weren’t there before, but they’re both different people now. They need to relearn one another, rediscover the familiar landmarks in the new maps on both their faces and feel their way around the new ones.

“Okay,” Calum says. Michael wants  _ this, _ whatever form  _ this _ takes. He wants Calum, in one way or another, and that’s enough for him. 

“What do  _ you _ want?” Michael asks. Calum shrugs again. 

_ Anything _ isn’t quite right. He would take anything, but the word is too desperate, doesn’t quite express everything Calum wants it to.  _ Everything _ isn’t right either, too greedy, too much too soon. Calum’s vocabulary’s a little too limited to get across  _ I want you, I want this, I want whatever you’ll give me in any which way _ in the exact way he wants.

Well. He supposes he’ll just have to try and get as close as he can.

“You,” he says, quieter than he’d intended. 

“How?” Fucking hell. Michael’s  _ really _ fucking good at picking at loose threads. 

“However,” Calum says. “Acquaintances. Friends. More.” He tries not to look nervous as he shrugs, but he can tell from the look on Michael’s face that he fails miserably. 

“Okay,” Michael says, gently. “But then we’ve got to stop tiptoeing around each other like this.” Calum nods, stomach churning a little as he thinks about what that might mean. Is this the moment where he chooses between Michael and his band? He’d never thought his fork in the road of fate would come in a beige living room in London. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” Michael blinks at him for a minute, and then smiles, small, hesitant, but one that reaches his eyes. 

“Okay,” he says again, smile still on his lips, nothing big and bright and brilliant but the most radiant smile Calum thinks he’s seen in years all the same. “I’ll start by telling you Supersonic’s got the worst fucking lyrics I think I’ve ever heard.” Calum laughs, startling himself with it. 

“You’re telling me?” he says, still a little hesitantly, dipping his toes in before he sticks his foot and then his leg and then his torso in. “Imagine having to hear it every single night and listen to Liam talking about how it’s  _ mega, yeah, fucking mega, Cal, and it makes perfect fucking sense and all, don’t know what you’re on about...eeyar, Noel, what  _ is _ it about?” _ Michael laughs, clear and amused, and Calum can’t help the way it makes his own lips quirk up in a smile, something warm spreading from his ears to his heart at the sound. 

“You do a fucking good Liam impression,” Michael says, and Calum snorts, gaining confidence. 

“You would too if you had to spend as much time with him as I do,” he says. “Cunt never shuts up.” Michael grins. 

“Seems like a laugh, though,” he says. 

“Yeah, if you know you can give him back to his handler after fifteen minutes,” Calum says, and Michael laughs again. It’s fucking heady, the feeling of making Michael laugh like that, makes Calum want to dredge up every memory he has and pick it apart until he has a whole fucking stand-up routine just for Michael. 

“Liam with a handler?” Michael sounds amused. “I don’t even want to imagine the salary he’d have to offer for someone to take that job.” 

“Salary?” Calum echoes, with a grin. “Fucking hell, don’t give Noel ideas. The prick gets paid enough already.” Michael cocks his head at that, a curious frown appearing on his face. 

“Noel?” he echoes, and Calum nods. “Don’t they hate each other?” Calum blinks. 

“D’you think we’d be here if they did?” he says, and Michael opens his mouth, then closes it again, and his brow furrows further. 

“Huh,” he says, sounding a little surprised. “But- y’know.” Calum does know. He knows what it looks like to anyone who doesn’t look closer than the black eyes and split lips, which is exactly where Liam and Noel both want people to stop looking. Neither of them can stand to be weak or vulnerable, and their greatest vulnerability is each other, so it’s better to keep everyone else at arm’s length, stop them from seeing how to get to either of them. That, and they really do hate each other half the time. 

“Well, they don’t, and they do. But you can’t really spend a lot of time with Liam or Noel and  _ not _ hate them,” Calum says. “And you can’t spend a lot of time with either of them and not love them, either.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling it over. 

“Your band shouldn’t work,” he says, and Calum laughs. 

“I know,” he says, and Michael grins back at him. God, it feels oddly surreal and yet like the most natural thing in the world, laughing and joking and listening to Michael chat shit about his best friends like that. “But imagine what we’d be like if Noel and Liam were normal.” Michael pulls a face. 

“You’d be like, U2 or something,” he says, and Calum scoffs. 

“U2?” he echoes. “Fuck off. Bono’s mental.” 

“Yeah, but what about the rest of them?” Michael points out. “Bet Larry Mullen goes home after a gig and sits in front of the fire with a pipe and a cup of tea.” 

“Larry who?” Michael grins. 

“Exactly,” he says, and Calum just grins back at him, relishing the way his fingertips are tingling at this new rapport, this foray into new and yet familiar territory. His stomach feels lighter now, too, almost empty, even, and- oh. Yeah. He hasn’t eaten yet. 

As if on cue, his stomach growls loudly, and Michael snorts. 

“Fuck off,” Calum says, but he’s still smiling. 

“What d’you fancy for lunch?” Michael says, stretching his arms out in front of him, a comfortable, trusting move. It catches Calum off-guard, making him reply a moment too late, if the frown on Michael’s face is anything to go by. 

“What’s going?” 

“Fish and chips?” Michael suggests, as he stands up. “Can’t go wrong with fish and chips, can you?” 

“You’ve clearly never been to America,” Calum says darkly, getting to his feet, and Michael laughs, and Calum’s stomach feels like it’s soaring and sinking at the same time. 

“I’m just not stupid enough to try and get any there,” he says, grinning at Calum as he heads for the living room door, pausing halfway there to look over his shoulder at Calum.

"Coming?" It's just one word, but Michael says it so casually, says it like he used to when they were skipping school, or when they were going to get drunk in the park, or when he was about to get in the shower, and it sends something exhilarating and powerful coursing through him, washing over him from head to toe. It's a little slice of them, the first peek at what was and what could still be.

"'Course." He always would. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok listen i know i said i'd get back to everyone but then i suddenly got ill and spent half the week in and out of hospital so that put a bit of a spanner in the works HOWEVER this time i promise i mean it unless god smites me again i'll be on it
> 
> that illness aside i'm doing well if falling further into the hole i have been trying to dig myself out of can be classified as 'well' but honestly i'm going to call it that i think fancying noel gallagher is a perfectly rational and sane thing to do in the year of our lord 2020 
> 
> as ever i have to thank angel of all angels sam for sitting in this doc while i fretted about what the FUCK to do with this chapter and for commenting on my insane ideas and helping me out sam i owe you everything please be careful with my life because you definitely have it in my hands at this point and an enormous thank you to meg for listening to me rant about how i literally could not figure out what i wanted to do with this chapter and for helping me figure out what direction to take a certain part of it in i hope i managed to make it work this is the ultimate test of your faith in my writing skills 
> 
> as ever pls follow me on [tumblr](http://calumcest.tumblr.com) xo

Michael insists that he knows a great local chippy, but when he turns into yet another residential street with no shops in sight after a good five minutes in the freezing cold, Calum frowns.

“Thought you said it was local?” he says.

“It is,” Michael says. “Never said it was local to  _ me, _ though.” Calum stops, and stares at him. 

“Are you serious?” he demands, edged with a little uncertainty, because he’s not quite sure whether they’re  _ there _ yet, not after one conversation, and Michael laughs, bright and loud. It makes Calum’s stomach flip, and he’s not quite sure whether it’s pleasant or unpleasant, or maybe just because he’s absolutely fucking starving. 

“It’s not far,” Michael promises. “Two minutes, tops.” 

“This had better be the best fucking fish and chips I’ve ever had,” Calum grumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets and nosing into the collar of his coat. Jesus, isn’t London supposed to be warmer than the north? He’s not inhaling all this pollution for nothing.

True to Michael’s word, though, another street-and-a-half later they’ve made it to the chippy, and Michael shoves the door open with his shoulder, pushing it far enough that Calum can make it through before it swings shut again. 

“Fuck me, it’s warm in here,” Calum mutters, pulling his hands out of his pockets and stretching his fingers experimentally, wincing as that horrible burning sensation of a sudden temperature change shoots through them. 

“It’s what, maybe fifteen degrees?” Michael says, amused. “What sort of a fucking Australian are you?” Calum glares at him instinctively, and then falters, because he’s still not sure exactly where he stands, but Michael just laughs, turning to the menu. 

“They do a good battered sausage,” he tells Calum, who reaches around into his pocket for his wallet as he blinks up at the prices. Fucking hell, two quid for a bag of chips? And Noel and Liam want to move down here?

“Who the fuck goes to a chippy and gets a battered sausage?” Calum says, scanning the menu, and frowning. “Where are the mushy peas?” 

“The what?”

“The mushy peas.”

“What the fuck is that?” Calum tears his eyes away from the menu to stare at Michael. 

“What the fuck are you on about?” he says. “Y’know, mushy peas?” 

“Is that some kind of northern thing?” Michael asks, and Calum frowns. Surely not; mushy peas are a fucking staple of a fish-and-chip dinner, aren’t they? What the fuck do they eat down south if not mushy peas? Mushy capers, or something? 

“Can’t be,” Calum says, still frowning, turning back to the menu. “What the fuck else do you eat with-”

“Hang on a minute,” Michael interrupts, frowning. “Is that- is that  _ Liam? _ ” Calum cuts himself off abruptly, blood running cold.

_ What? _

“What?” he says, and hopes Michael can’t hear the way his heart is in his throat, spinning wildly on the spot and trying to follow Michael’s gaze.

“Over there,” Michael says, sounding mildly intrigued and moderately confused, and nods in the direction of a table in the corner. 

Sure enough, there, frowning down at his chips as he shakes out a sachet of ketchup and says something indecipherable to Noel, who’s sat opposite him - Calum would know the back of that head anywhere, sees the top of it enough with the five inches he has on him - is Liam. 

Fuck. 

_ Shit. _

“D’you want to go over?” Michael says, and Calum swallows. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say? He can’t imagine  _ no, because I’ll get kicked out of my band, and you might get murdered _ will go down well. It doesn’t really matter, though, because his hesitation is an answer in itself. 

“They don’t know you’re here, do they?” Michael’s voice is a little heavy, a little bitter, and a little sad. It makes Calum’s stomach curl in on itself, like it’s trying to make itself too small to feel anything anymore. 

“They know I’m here,” Calum says. “Just- not to see you.” What’s the point in lying? That’s been the whole point of him coming down here, hasn’t it? Stop lying to Michael, start lying to Liam and Noel instead. It’s like Calum has a limited amount of honesty to go around, can’t keep himself in one piece, has to hand people little parts of himself so they won’t see the full thing. It’s fucking exhausting, especially when he hasn’t got booze or drugs to numb the pain of the pieces he keeps chopping himself into. Maybe it would have been easier if he’d stayed in Manchester, if he’d said no when Michael offered his phone number. 

(But, Calum knows, somewhere in the depths of his ragged soul, that no matter how many worlds there are out there, no matter how many parallel universes, there could never be one in which he could say no to Michael.)

“Why?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that as he turns around, heart beating wildly, praying Liam hasn’t seen them. 

“They’d fucking kill me. And you.” Michael glances over at Liam again, frowning slightly, and then looks back at Calum, confusion lacing the green-blue of his eyes, like he’s trying to work out what Calum really means by that. Calum thinks he’s been pretty fucking clear, isn’t really sure what Michael’s searching for in his eyes, until Michael opens his mouth, and says:

“Are you ashamed of me?” Jesus. Does Michael really want to do this here? In a fucking London fish-and-chip shop?

“No,” Calum says. “Can we- can we do this somewhere else? Just-” he cuts himself off, and Michael purses his lips, considering, and then sighs, nods, and heads for the door. Calum nigh on fucking runs after him, speedwalks out and halfway down the street until he thinks they’re a safe enough distance away, and then stops, letting Michael round on him. 

“Why haven’t you told them?” Michael asks, and Calum can see all the hurt swimming in his eyes and thinks  _ fuck, not now, not just when I’ve got you again. _

“They’re-” Calum stops. He’s not really sure how to phrase it.  _ Fucking cunts _ is probably the closest he can get, but then he’d have to try and explain why despite that, despite the fact that neither Liam nor Noel have a rational bone in their bodies, Calum loves them, and would do anything for them. “Not exactly reasonable, when it comes to this shit.”  Michael raises an eyebrow. 

“‘Not exactly reasonable’?” he echoes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. 

“They take this whole Blur-Oasis thing very seriously,” he says, and Michael frowns. 

“They do?” He sounds surprised.

“Don’t you?” 

“No,” Michael says. “Damon thinks it’s a fucking laugh.” Calum almost groans. Fucking hell, isn’t that just brilliant? He gets stuck with the mental northern lads who can’t take anything seriously except the one thing they don’t need to, and Michael gets the sensible southern boys who’ll listen to reason and probably hold hands while they do. 

(Calum wouldn’t change it for the fucking world, though.) 

“Well, Noel and Liam don’t,” Calum says. “I’d get chucked out of a window if they knew I so much as  _ thought _ about you.” Michael stares at him. 

“They’re mental,” he says, incredulously. “They’re absolutely fucking mental. What is this, fucking Montagues and Capulets?” 

“That’s what they’d have you believe,” Calum says, shoving his hands back in his coat pockets. Michael blinks. 

“Jesus,” he says, after a moment. “So they don’t even know we’re talking?” Calum can’t help but bark out a short, humourless laugh at that. 

“No,” he says. “No. Noel would- and Liam- no. No.” His stomach churns as a number of thoughts flash through his mind - Noel and Liam screaming at him, kicking him out of the band, never speaking to him again - and he shakes his head, half to try and clear his head of the thoughts and half to emphasise just how much Calum _can’t_ tell them. 

“So, what, I’m your dirty little secret?” Michael sounds a little bitter about it, and Calum can’t really blame him, but that doesn’t stop his heart twisting a little in his chest at the tone of his voice. 

“I- look,” Calum says, a little desperately. “This is my  _ life, _ Michael.” Michael inhales deeply, doesn’t exhale, just looks at Calum, weighing something up in his mind. His eyes are a little sad, a little angry, heavier and older than Calum remembers them ever being. It sends a tiny shiver down his spine, but for the first time the irrefutable evidence of Michael changing doesn’t make him feel a little queasy. Instead, it’s oddly thrilling, seeing the new self-assuredness and confidence with which Michael makes his decisions, no longer based purely on a split-second emotion. It drives home that Michael’s  _ different, _ now, that things aren’t the same as they were back then, but in a way that makes Calum think  _ maybe different could be better.  _

“Alright,” Michael says eventually, on a long exhale. “I- okay. I get it. They’re your band, right?” He pauses, and then smiles, a little sheepishly. “And to be honest, I haven’t told anyone you’re here today, either.” Calum blinks at him. 

“Hypocrite,” he says, but it’s soft, tentative, no heat to it. Michael grins all the same, and it just about manages to reach his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, protesting a little. “They at least know we’re talking.” Calum hesitates.

“What’ve you told them?” he asks. Michael shrugs. 

“Just that we’ve spoken on the phone a few times,” he says. “I mean, it’s not like I could avoid it, after Graham picked up your call on my birthday.” Oh, shit. Yeah.

“Oh,” Calum says. “Yeah. I forgot about that.” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, grimacing a little. 

“Did he ever tell Damon you locked him in a bathroom?” Michael laughs, bright and a little surprised, like he’s taken aback that Calum remembers that. 

“No,” he says. “But for the price I paid, he’d better keep his mouth shut about everything I ever fucking do for the rest of my life.” Calum raises an eyebrow, and Michael grins, properly this time, and shakes his head. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he says, and takes a step back, walking back into the stream of people that have been passing by.

“Oh, c’mon,” Calum says, falling into step with Michael, who just laughs again. “You can’t say that and not tell me.”

“I’m not telling you,” Michael says. “I take this Blur-Oasis shit seriously, y’know? Can’t be fraternising with the enemy." Calum throws him a sharp glance, but Michael’s still grinning, eyes sparkling with something a little mischievous that reminds Calum so much of the Michael he once knew that he falters, almost trips over his own feet. 

“Is that why you’re trying to starve me to death?” Calum says, testing the waters. Michael snorts. 

“You were the one that wanted out of the best fish and chip shop in London, my friend,” he says, mock-snootily. “Luckily for you, I’m feeling particularly magnanimous today, so I’ll take you to a good Italian place.” Calum raises an eyebrow. 

“Magnanimous?” he echoes. “Since when do you know words that long?” 

“Damon’s rules,” Michael says. “Have to learn at least five new words a week, and a spelling test on Sundays.” Calum blinks at him. 

“Really?” 

“No, you fucking idiot,” Michael says, a little incredulously, a lot amused. “Jesus, don’t they do sarcasm up north?” 

“Better than most,” Calum says. “It just sounds like something Damon would do, is all.” Michael laughs, turning to grin at Calum over his shoulder as he pushes the door to a small Italian place open. 

“He did make me read Siddhartha before he let me join the band,” he admits, and Calum makes a noise of triumph. 

“See?” he crows, and Michael just laughs again, and Calum thinks the warmth stealing over him really has nothing to do with the central heating in the restaurant.

\-------

They spend a leisurely hour or two in the restaurant, talking about absolutely nothing of import, skirting around anything that seems like it might get a little too serious, and Calum’s grateful for it. His carbonara tastes all the creamier when Michael starts pointing out passers-by, commenting on their frowns or their fast walks or their hideous coats, making Calum grin and splutter into his drink with every wicked and quick comment he makes. It’s almost like the old days, has the same sharp wit and ease that Michael’s tongue has always been good with,  but is a little more refined than then, has something more mellow to it, like Michael’s no longer trying to impress Calum or keep him by his side. It’s oddly heady, actually, the new sheen of confidence that polishes all of Michael’s words before they leave his mouth, makes Calum lose his focus every once in a while as he just stares at the easy self-assuredness held in Michael’s shoulders, until Michael waves a hand in front of his face and says  _ Earth to Calum, _ a small smile playing at his lips, a slight glimmer in his eyes. Calum can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed, though, still knows Michael well enough to read the smile as a pleased one, the glimmer as charmed, and just grins back, trying to stop his heart from jumping from his chest to his throat to his feet to his stomach and back again. 

It’s already getting dark by the time they head out of the restaurant - fucking December, honestly - and they take their time walking back to Michael’s house, wandering down side street after side street as Michael tells Calum about the difficulties he’s been having with his neighbour. Calum just listens, nodding and sighing and calling the neighbour a cunt in all the right places, and by the time they’re back at Michael’s house, it’s fully dark, the two of them bathed in the harsh orange light of the London streetlights. 

“When’s your train?” Michael asks, digging in his pocket for his keys and sliding them into the lock. 

“I, uh,” Calum says. “Didn’t book a specific one.” Michael raises an eyebrow at him over his shoulder as he unlocks the door, then steps inside and holds the door for Calum to walk in.

“Why not?” he asks, flicking the light switch on, and Calum shrugs, busying himself with pulling his shoes off. 

“Wasn’t sure how long I’d be here,” he says. Michael just hums at that as he kicks his own shoes off, like he’s mulling it over.

“When are Liam and Noel heading back?” he asks, and Calum shrugs again, a little more tense this time. 

“Don’t know,” he says. “Probably no later than six. Liam’ll want to be on the piss by nine.” 

“Not much else to do up there, I s’pose,” Michael says, a little flippantly, heading into the living room, making Calum frown as he follows. 

“There’s plenty to do,” he says, a little indignantly, and Michael turns back, throws him a slightly-amused look over his shoulder.

“Proper Manny boy now, aren’t you?” he says, settling down on the overstuffed armchair opposite the sofa again, curling his legs underneath himself. Calum sits down on the sofa, stretches out for a moment to try and crack his back, and then settles back against it with a scowl. 

“It’s home,” Calum says, surprising himself with the sincerity with which the words are saturated. Michael cocks his head, and Calum knows what he’s thinking.  _ When did Sydney stop being home to you?  _

“D’you not ever miss it?” he says, but he only really sounds curious. Calum shrugs. 

“Not really,” he says. “I only really- uh. Miss the people.” He averts his gaze, tries to stop his cheeks heating up. He’d almost said  _ I only really miss you. _

“Luke and Ashton are flying over in January,” Michael says. “You should come down and see them.” Calum swallows. 

“Depends when,” he says. “Think we’re back over in America in January.” Michael frowns. 

“You’ll be at the NME awards, though, won’t you?” he says. 

“Well, yeah, but so will Noel and Liam,” Calum says, and Michael’s face falls. Only fractionally, so slight that if Calum weren’t instinctively tuned into Michael’s frequency he would have missed it, but he is, so he doesn’t. 

“Oh,” Michael says. “Yeah. Right. Well, I know they’d love to see you.” 

“Mm,” Calum says, a little uncomfortably. He hates this, doesn’t want to be in a position where he has to pick his old life or his new. 

“I told them,” Michael says, and he sounds a little apologetic. 

“Told who?”

“Luke and Ashton. About us, y’know. Talking again.” Calum’s stomach flips. Right. So now the entirety of Blur and two of his friends from five years ago know, and his own best friends don’t. Brilliant. 

“Oh,” he says, and Michael has the dignity to look a little ashamed. 

“They were happy,” he offers, like it’ll assuage any of the guilt that’s bonded itself so tightly to each one of Calum’s blood cells he barely remembers what it’s like to walk around without their heavy burden weighing him down. “They’ve been asking after you.” 

“Oh?” Calum says, and hopes Michael doesn’t hear the thickness of his voice. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Luke’s finished his pilot training, now. He was in Japan the same time as me, so we went for a coffee.” 

“How’s he doing?” 

“Good,” Michael says, “yeah, good. Misses Ashton when he’s away, but.” He shrugs, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Not sure what else he expected, becoming a pilot.” Calum huffs out a laugh, a little bitter, a little amused. 

“And Ashton’s a teacher?” he says, and Michael nods. “What does he teach?”

“RE, I think,” Michael says. Calum snorts, but it’s sort of fond. 

“Sounds like Ashton,” he says, and Michael grins. 

“At least he put all those fucking books about Buddhism and that to good use,” he says. 

“D’you remember when he tried to make us all read the entire Bible?” Calum says, and Michael laughs, short and bright. 

“I remember him being beside himself when we just circled all the verses about masturbating,” Michael says, and Calum finds a laugh punched out of him by a sudden memory, surprising him with its intensity.

“D’you remember Luke made it through the entire Old Testament?” he says, and Michael’s smile grows, and he nods. 

“The things love makes you do,” he says, grinning, and Calum’s smile falters. 

Yeah. Love can make people go to the ends of the Earth for each other, or make someone read the entire Old Testament, or maybe even make someone lie to their best friends and put their entire career on the line. Calum doesn't want to think about that. 

(It _can't_ be that, anyway. It just can't.)

Michael seems to sense the change in Calum’s mood, because he shifts a little uncomfortably and clears his throat. 

“Are you staying home for Christmas, then?” he says, and Calum blinks, and nods. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Is Mali coming?” 

“No,” Calum says. “Can’t stand a cold Christmas, she says.” Michael smiles, a little wistfully. 

“Took me a while to get used to,” he says. “Fuck me, the first time it  _ snowed? _ ” 

“Oh, God, I know,” Calum says, a little more fervently than he’d intended to. “I thought it’d be all soft, y’know? Liam fucking saw to that misconception. Turned up at my house with a bunch of pre-made snowballs, the prick. Looked like I’d got battered in a pub brawl, or something.” Michael snorts. 

“No one ever mentioned how slippery it is, either,” he says.

“Or how nasty it is when it melts,” Calum agrees. 

“Or how wet it is in your hair,” Michael says. Calum raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s water,” he says. “You could’ve worked that one out for yourself.” Michael rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “Where’s the Aussie solidarity?” 

“Gone as soon as you insulted Manchester,” Calum tells him, and Michael laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“S’pose there are a few good things about it,” he concedes, eyes glittering. “One, in particular.” Calum swallows. 

“Oasis are pretty good, yeah,” he says, and Michael's eyes flash with amusement. 

“Pretty subpar bassist, though,” he says conversationally. 

“Is that so?” Calum says. Michael looks at ease, relaxed and sunk back into his armchair, smile on his face and eyes lit up with laughter, but Calum can’t help but feel hesitant, a little afraid to lean too far into the comfortable familiarity of the conversation. What if Michael changes his mind? 

"Mm," Michael says. "Personally, I think they just keep him in for his looks." Calum raises an eyebrow, tries not to let the way his heart's just skipped a beat show on his face. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself. It's just Michael's sense of humour. 

"What, with Liam in the band?" Calum says, and Michael scrunches his face up. 

"He's too pretty for me," he says, and then unscrunches his face again and raises his eyebrows. "Mind you, though, I wouldn't say no if-" 

"You fucking would if you know what's good for you," Calum tells him, and Michael laughs. 

"Would I?" he says, eyes gleaming. "Think I'd need a more tempting offer." He's looking at Calum in anticipation, like he's expecting a certain response, and it makes Calum swallow - twice, because his heart doesn't know how to behave. 

"I'll see what I can do," he says, and Michael grins at him. 

Right answer. 

\-------

The journey back home is uneventful. 

Michael had kindly forgotten to inform Calum of just  _ how _ much of a rush hour rush hour really is in London, meaning he has to wait for  _ three _ tubes to pass before he makes it to the edge of the platform, and then has to spend the two stops back to Euston shoved uncomfortably against the glass that divides the seats from the door area. At least it’s only two stops, though, he tells himself, tumbling off the train with a bunch of serious-looking commuters, half of whom seem to be headed back to Manchester. Calum’s train is already packed when he gets on, even though he walks all the way to the end so he won’t have to walk far when he gets to Piccadilly, and he ends up having to sit next to a family of three, an exhausted mother scolding her two young children and trying to get them to sit still. Calum offers her a small smile, wishing he’d brought a book or his Walkman or something, and settles for staring blankly out of the window to the other side of the four-year-old girl on his left, trying to make out shapes in the inky darkness of the night so he doesn’t have to focus on his thoughts. 

It turns out not to matter much, though, because even when the train’s whipping through the countryside and the children are still kicking up a fuss about something or other, Calum can’t focus on anything at all, zoning out entirely and feeling a bone-deep tiredness seeping through him, gluing him to his seat. He prefers it that way, though, prefers that he doesn’t have to feel anything but an echo of guilt for a while, lets it steal over him as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the seat. 

He must fall asleep for a while, because it feels like no time at all before a bustle of commotion wakes him up, and he finds everybody on their feet, patting their pockets and reaching for coats and bags. He blinks a few times, rubs his eyes, and then stands up, fumbles around in his pocket for his ticket as he files out of the train with everyone else. It’s surprisingly cold in Piccadilly, and he draws his coat around himself as he swerves around the mother and kids to beat them to the barriers, shoving his ticket in and stepping through. It feels like another threshold, like he's crossing back from a dream world into the real world, and he tries not to think about it too hard as he heads out to the bus stop.

The bus journey back home is cold and expensive, and by the time Calum gets home he thinks he might be in danger of losing a few of his limbs to the frosty air. It’s toasty warm inside the house, though, and there’s a plate of chicken and rice covered in cling film waiting for him on the kitchen counter, and Calum sticks it in the microwave, listens to the muffled sound of the TV floating out from the living room as he waits for his food to finish before taking it out to the table. 

The sound of the microwave dinging seems to have alerted his mum to his return, though, because no sooner has he sat down at the table than she's appeared in the doorway.

“Where’ve you been?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe. 

“London,” Calum mumbles, through a mouthful of chicken and rice, and scoops another forkful in, just for good measure. 

“To see Michael?” Calum falters, and then nods, averting his gaze. His mum sighs, loaded with something heavy that Calum decides he doesn’t want to pick apart. “And?” 

“And what?” 

“What happened?” Calum swallows, and shovels another loaded forkful of food into his mouth. 

“Nothing,” he says, and hopes she’ll attribute the way he winced at the evasiveness of his tone to the fact the food is really fucking hot. 

“Calum,” she starts, in that  _ I’m about to give you a lecture _ voice that only parents (and Noel) can really manage, and Calum swallows again, chokes a little as the un-chewed food almost gets stuck in his oesophagus, and shakes his head. 

“Don’t,” he says, a little sharply. “I’m twenty-two, mum.” She sighs again, a little exasperated this time. 

“I know, but you’re still my kid,” she says. Calum inhales deeply, and closes his eyes. 

He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to have to explain every single tiny movement he makes, not every time he comes home. He doesn’t want to be monitored whenever he comes or goes, doesn’t want to have to answer to anyone. He’s not used to it anymore, not after so long on tour; he’s used to crashing into hotel rooms with a bagful of white powder and a body full of booze, one or two or maybe even three loud and brash Mancunians in tow, vision hazy around the edges from the weed he’s just taken a few hits of, used to sleeping three hours on a bus and waking up in a different city to the one he’d fallen asleep in. It feels oddly claustrophobic, now, coming home. He loves it, loves seeing his mum and his dad and eating proper meals and getting to potter around the house and go down the pub with Liam, but he’s outgrown it as a lifestyle. He’s too big for that little room upstairs, now, too big for this two-up two-down, maybe even too big for Manchester. 

“I’m going to look at houses,” he blurts, before he’s even thought about it. A flash of something crosses his mum’s face, but she schools her features into something encouraging before he has a chance to really interpret it. 

“That’s a good idea,” she says. “You’re old enough to be gone, now.” Calum nods, and brings another forkful of food to his mouth. 

“In London,” he adds, and his mum blinks at him for a moment. 

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” she says, sounding far too brisk, like she’s forcing it. “That’s where the music industry is, isn’t it?” Calum nods. 

“Noel and Liam are moving down, too,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows. 

“That’s a recipe for disaster,” she says shrewdly, and Calum shakes his head. 

“No, not together,” he says. 

“Oh,” she says. “Well. You should probably still look for somewhere further away from them.” Yeah, he probably should. 

(He won’t, though.) 

“Yeah, maybe.” He’s almost finished his plate of food, wishes she would fucking leave, so he doesn’t have to have the rest of this conversation with her. She seems to get it, though, just sighs again, and pushes herself off the doorframe.

“Let us know if we can help with anything,” she says gently, and Calum throws her a tight smile as she leaves. 

He’s not really sure where that came from. Okay, he’s been thinking about moving out for a while, but not in any concrete way; it’s very much been conceptual, something that he thinks he should probably do, but hasn’t been bothered to think about beyond that, something that’s stayed very firmly at the back of his mind. It feels right, though, he realises. He’d sort of thought it would be frightening, something that he was doing because he felt he had to rather than because he wanted to, but he feels oddly settled after saying it to his mum, like he's been making do in the dark and now he's turned on the light. It'll be good for him, he thinks, to live on his own. 

Plus, he thinks, as he scrapes his chair back from the table, gathering up his plate and cutlery, Liam could probably do with a set of eyes on him, couldn’t he? And the fact that Kentish Town is close to Camden has absolutely nothing to do with it. 

\-------

Calum’s woken up at ten the next morning by a knock at the door. 

“Mm?” he mumbles, not entirely sure whether he’s actually awake or not yet, and the door opens a crack to reveal his mum. 

“Noel’s on the phone for you,” she says, and throws him a significant look that he chooses not to interpret. What the fuck does Noel want at ten in the morning? 

“Tell him I’ll call him back,” he says, and she purses her lips. 

“Tell him yourself,” she says, and tosses the handset at him. He squawks, flinching to avoid getting a hunk of plastic to the head - she’s never had the greatest aim - and then picks up the receiver that’s landed (painfully) on his forearm. 

“What?” he says, rubbing his eyes. 

“What were you really doing in London?” Jesus Christ. Straight to the fucking point. 

“Running errands.” 

“Bullshit.” Calum sighs. 

“What the fuck d’you want me to say?” he says tiredly. 

“You looked like you’d seen a fucking ghost when we came over,” Noel says. 

“I wasn’t expecting to see you, was I?” 

“You knew we were going to be in London. Liam says he told you.” Fuck’s sake. 

“London’s a big fucking place, though, isn’t it?” Calum says. “Still didn’t expect to see you there.” 

“Cut the fucking shit, Calum. I know who lives in Camden.” Calum’s blood runs cold. Shit. He should have known that they would have seen them in the chippy, should have made Michael leave faster, hide his face, turn away, anything. All it would have taken would have been one errant look from Liam, and the cat would have been out of the bag. 

“Why the fuck are you so convinced this is some kind of conspiracy?” Calum bites out. Fight fire with fire, he thinks. Works for Liam, doesn’t it? 

“I’m going to give you one chance to be honest with me,” Noel says. His voice is dangerously even, too controlled, that sort of wound-up serenity he gets a minute before he explodes, and Calum can’t even swallow, can’t get anything past the lump suddenly in his throat. “Were you or were you not seeing Thom Yorke?” Calum stops. 

What? 

“What?” he says. “No, I- what?  _ What? _ I don’t even fucking know the bloke.” 

“You spoke to him at Glastonbury, didn’t you?” Noel says, utterly hostile. Calum blinks. 

“That was- that was  _ six months ago.” _

“So?” Noel sounds like he’s bristling. “First Blur, now Radiohead? Are you just working your way through our competition? Were you fucking him too?” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, and Calum’s mouth drops open as he tries to process what Noel’s accusing him of. 

What?

_ What? _

“What the fuck?” Calum says incredulously. “I’m not  _ fucking Thom Yorke. _ What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“You’d better be fucking certain about that, Calum, because-” Noel starts warningly, but Calum cuts him off. 

“Jesus Christ, Noel, I’ve spoken to him  _ once. _ I don’t know where the cunt lives. Why the fuck do  _ you _ know where he lives?” There’s a pause. 

“Alright,” Noel says, still tinged with suspicion, like he can’t quite let go of the idea that Calum had snuck to London to visit  _ Thom fucking Yorke. _

“You’re fucking insane,” Calum says, and doesn’t stop the derisiveness from leaking into his voice. Who the fuck rings someone at ten in the morning to accuse them of sleeping with a random bloke they haven’t seen in months? Noel’s acting like a fucking jealous ex, or something. 

“I’m insane?” Noel says, a little coldly. “You’ve got previous, mate.” And yeah, that’s fair enough - more than fair enough, because Calum  _ is _ going behind Noel’s back,  _ is _ betraying his best friend and his band - and the thought of it makes the guilt chase the anger out of his veins, makes him slump back into his pillow and rub a hand over his eyes. 

“Christ, Noel,” he says wearily. “You need to stop taking this shit so seriously. Let the music speak for itself.” Noel barks out a laugh. 

“I take it seriously because none of the rest of you do,” he says. 

“Just fucking relax,” Calum says. 

“I’ll relax when I’ve made my millions,” Noel says. “Until then, you can get your fucking arse in the studio and make me some money.” Calum rolls his eyes. 

“You snort all your money away,” he says. 

“So?” Noel says. “Just have to make me more, then, won’t you?” Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh at that. 

“You fucking idiot,” he says, but the smile playing at his lips makes it come out fond, and when Noel laughs this time, it’s soft and pleased. 

“Aye,” he says. “But I’m no Liam.” 

Well. He’s got a point.

\-------

Christmas comes and goes without much fanfare, which is just how Calum likes it, and what he needed after all the months of touring. 

He gets up early, yawning and rubbing at his eyes as he slaps a hand on his alarm clock to shut it up, and spots a tiny little stocking at the foot of his bed, despite the stern look and the  _ you’re almost twenty-three, Calum, you’re too old for stockings _ his mum had given him the night before _.  _ He grins, stifling another yawn as he empties it onto his bed, collects the little chocolate coins that spill out and unwraps the small present to find a little travel-sized bottle of his favourite aftershave. It makes him smile, that even though he’s a fucking rockstar in the making now, his mum still buys him aftershave, and he tucks the little bottle into his still-packed suitcase so he won’t forget it when they leave for Scotland on Boxing Day.

His parents are both already up when he gets downstairs, showered and dressed and ready to help with cooking dinner, and he throws his dad a quick  _ merry Christmas _ before heading into the kitchen where his mum is humming along to the tune blasting from the radio. 

“Morning,” he says, and she whips around, throws him a cheery smile as she puts something in the oven. “Thanks for the aftershave.” 

“What d’you mean, thanks?” she says, a twinkle in her eye. “Do I look like Father Christmas?” Calum tuts and rolls his eyes, presses a kiss to her cheek, and reaches for the carrots she’s been peeling. 

“What needs doing?” he asks, and she smiles at him, starts telling him that after he’s done with the carrots he should get some sprouts out of the freezer, please, and then fetch some of that wine from outside - the  _ good _ wine, mind, Calum, and I know you drank the  _ really _ good wine and thought we wouldn’t notice - and Calum just grins sheepishly, nods along to what she’s saying as he slices up the carrots, hums along as she switches to talking about Janet and how she’s got a baby on the way now. 

He’s halfway through chopping potatoes when the all-too-familiar drum beat of Supersonic starts up on the radio, a little fuzzy from the static. He starts, his heart lurching with adrenaline, and turns to his mum. 

“That’s us,” he says excitedly, but she’s already reaching for the volume on the radio, turning it up and beaming. 

“That’s you, isn’t it!” she says, sounding even more excited than him. “I like this one, actually. It feels very optimistic.” Calum bites the inside of his cheek, looks back down at his potatoes to try and stop himself laughing. Yeah, it was written while Noel was high as a fucking kite on coke; no wonder it sounds optimistic. 

“I like it too,” he says, grinning as Liam’s voice starts filling the room, raw and velvet and a little grimy, just how Calum likes it.  _ Only fucking rock ‘n’ roll star there is, now, me, _ Liam would say, if he were here, and Calum would roll his eyes, and Noel would probably cuff Liam upside the head, and Bonehead would laugh, and Tony would shake his head and look the other way. God, Calum loves his band, loves their dysfunctional dynamic, loves every bit of the coke and the booze and the fighting and the laughing and the tiny moments of peace where Liam’s curled up against him, fast asleep, and Noel’s throwing him an exasperated but fond look from across the room.

( _ You don’t love it enough to be honest with them, though, _ a little voice in his mind tells him, but he pushes it into the back of his mind with as much force as he can muster. Not on Christmas. He deserves one day without guilt, however much of a cunt he’s being.) 

They ring Mali after dinner before the Queen, because it’s pushing on for time back in Sydney and his dad sagely points out that she’ll be too drunk to hold a proper conversation once it hits midnight. She’s already well on the way there, shouting and laughing merrily down the phone, but it just makes them all laugh, makes Calum’s heart ache a little bit, but not in a way he particularly minds. He misses her, but he knows he’ll see her soon enough. 

After an already fairly lengthy catch-up, his mum wants to speak to her about something to do with her rent which neither Calum nor his dad particularly care about, so they head into the living room and start sorting out potential VHSs to watch that evening. They’re in the middle of arguing about whether or not Blackadder is an appropriate Christmas show when Calum’s mum appears in the doorway, holding out the phone in her hand. 

“Mali wants to talk to you,” she says, and Calum scrambles to his feet, grabs the handset off her and heads into the kitchen, hoping his mum won’t follow, will let the two of them have a moment of privacy.

“Hello?” Calum says, throwing a glance over his shoulder to check his mum’s not following. Sure enough, she’s tutting at his dad, telling him  _ Blackadder isn’t a Christmas show, David, be serious, please, _ so Calum turns into the kitchen, doesn’t bother turning the light on, just leans against the counter in the dark.

“How’s my baby brother?” Mali asks cheerfully, and Calum grins, and shakes his head. 

“I’m good,” he says. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Heard you on the radio today,” Mali says, and Calum’s stomach flips. They’re playing Oasis in  _ Australia? _ Fucking hell. 

“You did?” 

“Yeah. Sounds really fucking good, actually.” Calum grins. 

“‘Course it does,” he says. “It’s me, innit?” Mali laughs, bright and tinny in his ear. 

“You’re spending too much time with those Gallaghers,” she tells him. “Where’s my shy little brother got to?” 

“Gone with all the coke and booze,” Calum says, and Mali snorts. 

“Fair enough,” she says. “How’s the rockstar life treating you, then? Number one album, isn’t it?” 

“Fastest-selling debut album in British history,” Calum says, and Mali whistles lowly. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

“Yeah, think so.”

“Alright, then, I’m impressed,” she says flippantly, and Calum huffs out a laugh. “What’s it like?” 

“What’s what like?”

“Y’know, fame, and all that. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Although I’d rather not hear about the sex, if it’s all the same to you.” Calum snorts. 

“Good,” he says, “it’s good. Weird, though, getting asked for autographs, and that. Touring’s strange, too. But it’s good. And I’m glad I’ve got my band with me.” 

“Good to know someone’s glad,” Mali says. “I bet the rest of the world aren’t glad to have those two delinquents running wild. Mum and Dad don’t know about the number of hotels you’ve been kicked out of, do they?” 

“No,” Calum says warningly, “and they’re not going to find out.” 

“No, no, I’ll toe the line, Cal,” Mali says breezily. “For a price.” 

“Get fucked,” Calum says, but he’s grinning. 

“C’mon, you must be fucking loaded by now,” Mali says, but she’s grinning too, just trying to wind him up. “I mean, you played Glastonbury, right? That was a big fucking lineup. Pretty much anyone who’s relevant was there, if my boss is to be believed. She might just be saying that because she was there, though.” Calum’s face drops.

“Yeah,” he says, and bites his lip. He should tell her about Michael. She knew, back then, knew better than almost anyone, and she should know now, really. “I, uh,” he starts, and then licks his lips, and swallows. Mali just waits, though, knows him well enough to know that it’s going to be something important, and Calum takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I saw Michael.” 

“Clifford?” 

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. 

“I wondered how long it’d take,” Mali says, and she sounds a little mournful. It makes Calum blink, makes him frown as he thinks - more than a little upset -  _ what the fuck? She knew? _

“You knew? About him being in Blur?” 

“‘Course I knew. I’m in the music business, aren’t I? I’m in Australia, Cal, not on the fucking moon.” 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mali sighs. 

“I was trying to protect you,” she says. Calum grits his teeth. 

“Would’ve protected me more if you’d warned me before I ran into him at a fucking awards show,” he says. 

“Shit,” Mali mutters, and Calum makes a  _ yeah, fucking right _ sort of noise. “What happened?” 

“Liam and Noel nearly fucking skinned me alive,” Calum says. 

“With Michael, I mean.” Calum hesitates. 

“Nothing,” he says. “Until Glastonbury.” 

“What happened at Glastonbury?” Calum stares down at the floor, digs his thumbnail into the countertop behind him.

“Bumped into him,” he says. “And then he rang me a few days later. And then we- uh. We started calling. And I went to his house last week.” Mali’s silent for a long, long moment, so long that Calum would think that she might have got disconnected if it weren’t for the sound of her breathing, slow and considered in Calum’s ear. 

“Oh, Cal,” she says, and the words come out sad and heavy. “Are you- are you…?” She trails off, clearly not sure how to phrase it, but Calum knows what she’s asking. He closes his eyes, brings a hand up to rub over his face, and shrugs, even though she can’t see him. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not yet, though. But maybe.” Mali sighs again, sounding more sober than she has for the entire call. 

“What do the rest of them think?” she asks. Calum swallows. 

“They don’t know,” he admits. 

There’s a pause. A long, long fucking pause, and Calum sort of wants to just hang up, sort of wants to laugh and say  _ joking, just kidding, can you fucking imagine, wish I could see the look on your face,  _ but he doesn’t. He clenches his fist, waits it out, and eventually Mali exhales heavily. 

“That’s a dangerous fucking game,” she says, and Calum can’t help the humourless laugh that escapes him at that. Doesn’t he fucking know it. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I just- I can’t tell them. They don’t understand.” 

“Even Noel? He was always the reasonable one, wasn’t he?” Calum snorts, and it’s bitter. 

“Not when it comes to the music,” he says. “And-” he cuts himself off, biting his lip. He hasn’t told  _ anyone _ about him and Noel, not even Mali, because it didn’t matter at the time, and as soon as it started to matter, he had no one to tell. But it’s pertinent now, isn’t it, and it’d probably be a weight off his shoulders, so he takes a deep breath, and says: “And, uh, I fucked him.” There’s another pause. 

“You- you fucked Noel?” Mali doesn’t quite sound like she believes him. 

“I- well-” okay, she doesn’t need to know that technically Noel fucked him “-I mean, yeah.  _ Years _ ago, though, like, three years ago. But- y’know.” He winces, cringing at his own words. 

“Fucking hell, Cal,” Mali says, sounding a little awed. “You’ve made yourself a right fucking mess, haven’t you?” 

“I know, I know,” Calum groans, tipping his head back. “It- it didn’t  _ matter, _ y’know, it was just a one-time thing, but now with Michael back in the picture…” he trails off, and Mali sighs again. 

“Does Michael know?”

“No.” 

“Jesus, Cal, are you honest with fucking anyone in your life?” 

“I- yeah, I just- look, it’d be presumptuous of me to tell him,” Calum says. “We haven’t- we only just made up last week.” Mali hums, a little disapprovingly. 

“Well, I suppose,” she says, but she still doesn’t sound too happy about it. “You’ve got to tell your band, though. I’ve seen bigger bands fall apart for less.” Calum’s stomach flips. He knows that, and he knows full well that  _ they _ could fall apart for less. But he also knows that he’s too far deep with the lie, now, could maybe have got away with the months of sporadic phone calls but hammered the final nail into his coffin in a chic house in Camden, that if he tells them now it all comes crashing down anyway. 

“I can’t,” he says, and he hears the desperation in his own voice. “I  _ can’t, _ Mali. I’d be-” he doesn’t even want to think about it. A life without Oasis, fine, whatever, he can go back to fixing fences and walls. But a life without Noel? A life without  _ Liam? _ Calum can’t even stomach the thought of that, let alone the prospect of it being a reality. “I can’t. I can’t lose them.” 

“What the fuck is the deal with you and those two?” Mali says, a little exasperated, because she knows he doesn’t mean Bonehead or Tony. “They’re nothing but trouble.” 

“They’re my best friends,” Calum says, which is a bit of an understatement. Liam’s more of a part of the fabric that makes up Calum’s soul, but it feels a bit dramatic to say that out loud. 

Mali’s quiet for a moment, and then she sighs again, long, heavy, resigned. 

“Be careful,” she says gently. Her reluctant seal of approval. 

“I’m trying.” Mali hums. 

“Give my love to Mum and Dad,” she says. “I’m going to get high as fuck and try to forget that someone in my family has fucked Noel Gallagher.” The ghost of a smile crosses Calum’s lips at that. 

“Night,” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you most, Cal.” There’s a click, and then she’s gone, nothing but the sound of Calum’s ragged breathing and his racing heart swelling in the silence of the dark kitchen. 

Calum sets the phone down on the counter, then inhales deeply, staring up at the ceiling. Mali’s right. He’s made himself a right fucking mess. 

Well, he thinks, a little bitterly. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may have subtly got information about the process of buying a house in london in the 90s from my dad so shoutout dad for your services to this fic because i realised damn i dont know how the fuck anything happened before the internet whats calum gonna do go to his local internet cafe (!! remember them) and get on zoopla i think not and google was no fucking help either so i had to resort to swallowing my pride and casually striking up conversation about house-buying in the mid-90s and filing the information away for later use
> 
> i think this chapter is essentially an ode to liam but you know what. he deserves it also i wrote most of this listening to i know him so well on repeat but the steps version...judge me at your pleasure and also at your peril also i would actually have had this up on time however i was speaking to a certain someone...you know who you are. i said i would call you out in the a/ns and i'm a woman of my word 
> 
> sam has my undying thanks for listening to my stupid ideas and encouraging me to write them but better also she left a comment on the google doc for part of this chapter that just said 'god you read liam gallagher scarily well.' which sent me and also stroked my little ego so sam you get an extra thanks for that this week. meg gets an enormous thank you for sending me the fucking funniest message encouraging me very gently and sweetly to finish this chapter that definitely didn't involve luke hemmings holding me at gunpoint. noel also gets a thank you for being fit and allowing me to perceive him i'm not taking criticism on this for at least 3 business days

They have a few dates in the UK at the end of December, and Calum finds that his week or so away from his band has actually been a week too long. It almost made him forget the warmth that fizzles through his veins with the laughter that comes from Noel making contemptuous comments about Liam and Bonehead and Liam and Tony and Liam again, from Bonehead cheering loudly as Calum and the brothers groan and wince when they hear _-and City have conceded yet another goal, this really is poor form-_ on the radio, from Liam slinging an arm around Calum in a bar in Glasgow and grinning madly at him, eyes lit up from the high of the show and the booze and the drugs, and shouting _I fucking love you, Cal,_ over the sound of the shitty music. It makes Calum grin back, makes him press a sloppy kiss to Liam’s cheek, makes him giddy with the thoughts of _how could I ever give this up?_ that rattle around what little of his mind the coke in his veins has left him. 

It’s good, though, because the week-and-a-half apart is all the breathing space they needed, so once they’ve all recovered from their frankly alarming post-New-Year’s hangovers, the first few weeks of January, which are precious weeks off, are spent cooped up in a rehearsal space, or down the pub, or lying on the floor of Noel’s flat, stoned out of his mind, or wrapped up in a bunch of sky-blue scarves screaming abuse at the away stand at Maine Road. 

Or, looking at houses in London. 

Calum had mentioned it to Liam in a carefully-casual way, biting the inside of his cheek to contain a smile as Liam’s bright blue eyes had lit up and he’d said, a little too enthusiastically,  _ eeyar, y’know Kentish Town’s a right nice area? Bet you could find a place there, too. _

“Have you got a place, then?” Calum had asked, and Liam had shaken his head. 

“Not yet,” he’d said. “Got some more viewings next week, though, if you fancy tagging along.” Calum had hummed, and nodded. 

“Might do,” he’d said. “What’re you looking at?” 

“Houses,” Liam had said immediately. “Big fuck-off houses. _Mansions."_ Calum had snorted, and rolled his eyes. Typical. 

“Give us the number of your estate agent,” he’d said. “I’ll ring and see if they’ve got anything for me.” 

So Liam had called Noel and asked for the estate agent’s number, because he’d lost his address book again, and then Calum had rung the estate agent and told them vaguely what he was looking for - a place somewhere around Kentish Town, not too far from a pub if possible - asked to be put on the books, and been posted a few particulars. There had been a few places he’d been interested in, two houses and one flat, and with a little bit of wrangling he’d managed to get himself viewings on the same day that Liam had said he’d be going down, which is how they’ve ended up here.

They’ve seen both the houses that Calum had been considering, neither of which were quite right - one had a deceptively large garden, which Calum simply can’t be bothered to deal with, and the kitchen of the other one needed far too much work doing - and they’re in the second of Liam’s now, ambling around an airy, spacious living room. It’s a nice house, Calum thinks as he runs a finger over the mantelpiece above the fireplace, if a little big for his own taste. Liam, though, seems to be fucking loving it, craning his neck to look at the high ceilings and the  _ sash windows,  _ whatever the fuck those are. Calum had tuned out of whatever the fuck the estate agent’s droning on about approximately ten minutes ago, electing to simply wander around on the other side of the room, lost in his own thoughts. 

It’s going to be fucking weird, he thinks, living in London. Manchester’s _home._ It’s where he’s been for almost six years, where his life had gone from bland and mundane to the fucking rollercoaster it is now, where he'd settled in and grown into himself. It’s going to be fucking weird being away from it, not going to Maine Road on a Saturday afternoon or a Tuesday evening, not heading down to the pub round the corner from his house for a pint with Liam, not hopping on a bus to cross town to Noel’s flat. Somehow it feels even stranger than when he’d first found out he’d be going on tour, leaving Manchester and sleeping in a different city every night, because he’d still always known where his home was. Sydney hadn’t ever _really_ felt like home, not in the way Manchester does, and it makes Calum’s skin prickle with a tiny bit of fear to think that he’s choosing to uproot himself again, choosing to displace himself entirely this time, on a strange leap of faith chasing his best friends down to London. 

Well, he thinks, glancing over at Liam again, and a warm wave of comfort washes over the prickling under his skin. At least he’ll have a little bit of home here with him. 

Almost like he knows he’s being watched, Liam turns on his heel and catches Calum’s eye.

“What d’you think?” he says, like they’re a couple, or something. Calum shrugs. He likes it well enough, but it’s not his money, is it?

“‘S your money,” he says. 

“Yeah, but what d’you think?” Calum shrugs again, casting his eyes back up at the huge bay windows opening out onto the street. He can imagine Liam here, sprawled out across a big sofa with ten empty bottles in front of him, TV blaring in the background, phone hanging off the hook. He’d probably have those NME covers of himself blown up and hung on the wall over there, maybe above the fireplace, might even get a vinyl of their album and stick that up on the wall behind the sofa- yeah, Calum can imagine Liam here. 

“I like it,” he says. “Think it suits you.” Liam beams at him. 

“Yeah?” he says, and turns back to the estate agent, who’s been hovering a little nervously in the doorway as Liam prodded around the brilliant white living room. “How much was this one, again?” 

“Five hundred and forty six thousand,” the estate agent says politely, and Liam nods thoughtfully, like that isn’t the most enormous sum of money Calum’s ever heard of. 

“D’you want to ring our accountant, maybe?” Calum says pointedly, and Liam shakes his head. 

“Seeing Noel tomorrow,” he says, and Calum hums. Fair enough. Noel’ll probably know the state of Liam’s finances better than their accountant, anyway. "Right, let's have a look at your little bedsit, then, eh?" Calum rolls his eyes, and shoots Liam a playful glare. 

"Get to fuck," he says, and Liam grins, following the estate agent out of the house. 

The flat Calum had liked the look of is literally around the corner from the house Liam’s keen on, and there’s a pub halfway between the two of them that Liam points out and stops outside of, peering in and asking the estate agent how much a pint costs there. 

“Two pound fifty?” he echoes in shock, when the estate agent informs him. “Who the fuck do they think they are?”

“You’re literally a fucking millionaire,” Calum reminds him, and Liam tears his gaze away from the window to glower at him. 

“It’s the fucking principle,” he says, but he slouches away from the pub, albeit not without throwing it one final glare. 

The flat’s on the ground floor of a huge house, one that looks like something Calum might expect Brett Anderson to live in, and he has half a mind to ask whether any other potential rival band members are living in the area before letting Liam loose in it, but decides he’s not going to play the role of Liam’s minder if he doesn’t have to. He, at least, isn’t bound to him by blood and double-helixes like some people, and he’s going to take full advantage of that. 

The estate agent’s saying something about  _ excellent schools in the area _ as they walk in, and Calum just stares at her back, thinking  _ do I fucking look like I’m about to have kids? I don’t even know how to boil an egg or change a lightbulb - or anything beyond playing bass and taking drugs, really.  _ Liam doesn’t hold back his snort, and Calum throws him a glare over his shoulder but can’t hide the amused smile playing at his lips, which just encourages Liam, makes him say _eeyar, Cal, could tuck your little kids Mary and Jane into bed right here, couldn't you?_ when they get into the smaller bedroom.

The flat’s not too big, but it’s definitely not small, either - a bedroom, a living room, a bathroom and a toilet, and a kitchen, with a little patio at the back over the shared garden which, the estate agent assures him, is taken care of by the building managers. It’s exactly the right size, really - big enough that Calum feels like he’d have breathing space, even with the four noisy Mancunians that are inevitably going to be spreading themselves out across his new place like they’d been the ones to spend a few hundred thousand on it, but small enough that it wouldn’t feel empty, wouldn’t make him feel lonely if he were there on his own, and, more importantly, wouldn’t be a fucking ballache to clean. 

He looks down at the particulars he’d had the foresight to bring with him - or rather, that his mum had shoved in his hand before he’d left the house - and scans it for the price again. A hundred and ten thousand, alright. That’s still fucking extortionate, but after hearing the price of the place Liam’s thinking of it feels like a bargain, and he’s already got his mortgage in place thanks to the chivvying from his parents, so he turns to the estate agent when they get to the kitchen and says: “I’d like to make an offer at the asking price.” She brightens, and nods. 

“We have one more viewing on this property this afternoon, but I’ll get in touch with the seller as soon as I get back to the office and let him know,” she says, and Calum smiles politely at her, feeling incredibly out of his depth. Fucking hell, maybe he’s  _ not _ ready for this. Maybe it’s too early to be living on his own; maybe he should have a transition period, move in with Liam, or something, rent something in Manchester. 

But, like he can sense it, Liam turns to him, and nods decisively. 

"This is your fucking place," he says, like it's obvious. "And I'll be right 'round the corner." 

So it's decided.

Buying a flat, it turns out, though, is a right fucking hassle.

It involves lawyers, which Calum hadn’t expected, and it involves a surveyor, which he’d never even heard of, and it involves his parents insisting on coming down to London to look at the property he’s chosen, like they can’t trust him to make an adult decision. 

(Well, Calum thinks, when Liam casually offers him a bump of coke in the pub the evening before they're due to go down to London. Maybe they’re right.) 

His mum thinks the kitchen is too small for entertaining, and Calum doesn’t have the heart to tell her that the kitchen probably won’t be used for anything other than storing alcohol for a good few years, and his dad thinks the shower could do with replacing, which Calum just nods at - he’s not sure how he’d go about doing that; call a plumber? A builder? He’ll figure something out - but they both nod, satisfied, when Calum’s finished the full tour and turns back to them expectantly. 

_“_ _How_ close did you say Liam would be, again?” his mum asks, too casually, and Calum can’t help but laugh as he leads them out. 

There’s no way it’ll all be done before they have to head back out on tour again, so Calum has to sign a bunch of documents authorising his parents to be informed about what stage of the buying process he's in,  but the lawyer Noel had found for him assures him that everything will be done by the end of January when they’re back for a few days for the NME awards and Calum’s birthday. 

About a week and a half before the NME awards, Michael calls. 

“A little birdy tells me you’re buying a place in London,” is how he greets Calum when Calum picks up the phone after hearing the  _ Calum, it’s Michael _ yelled up at him from the kitchen, and Calum can’t help but huff out a surprised laugh. 

“How the fuck d'you know that?” he says. 

“I’ve got my sources,” Michael says, and Calum can hear that he’s grinning. 

“You’re not spying on me, are you?” Calum says, a little suspiciously. 

"'Course not," Michael says breezily. "Can't speak for Damon, though. Y'know, this whole Blur-Oasis thing is really stepping up a notch with the NME awards around the corner."  Calum can’t help but smile himself, grinning down at his lap. 

“Fuck off,” he says, and he feels comfortable saying it, and Michael laughs, and it all makes a strange warmth curl up and make a home for itself in the pit of his stomach. 

“Dave’s looking to move to Kentish Town,” Michael explains. “Went to an estate agent, who said it was surprising to see three members of Oasis and one member of Blur there in the space of a week.” 

“Those bastards,” Calum says evenly. “Thought we were paying for exclusive rights to their services. Pretty sure Liam would've made sure we had a verbal contract, or something; _none of those Blur cunts allowed."_ Michael laughs again, and the sound goes straight to something deep in Calum, something that he reckons might be either his heart or soul but chooses to ignore because he can feel the threat of panic rising in his chest at the very thought of entertaining that idea. 

“What made you decide to move down, then?” Michael says, and Calum shrugs, even though Michael can’t see him. 

“Thought it was about time I moved out,” he says. “And- y’know. London’s sort of the place to be, if you’re in the music scene.” Michael hums. 

“Y’know Kentish Town’s right around the corner from Camden?” he says, a little too nonchalantly. “‘S where that fish and chip shop I took you to was.” Calum swallows. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says. He hesitates, and then adds, in an equally too-casual voice: “You’ll have to show me around the area.” 

“Might do,” Michael says lightly. “For a fee.” 

“I’m going to be skint after buying this place,” Calum tells him. "It'd be an act of charity." 

“Who said the fee was monetary?” Michael says, and Calum’s heart skips a beat. He clears his throat, and goes to say something, but can't. It doesn't matter, though, because Michael’s carrying on, a little hastily, like he’s picked up on Calum’s silence. “You could nick me a few of Noel’s songs. Damon’s really struggling for lyrics. Came into the rehearsal room yesterday after being stuck in traffic with a song that goes _who maddest one on the M1?”_ He pauses, and then says: “It’s pretty good, though.” Calum can’t help but snort at that, heart beating a little too fast, even though Michael’s glossed over the awkward moment. Or maybe papered over it; Calum's never been great at telling the difference.

“I’m not looking to get murdered,” he says, and Michael sighs dramatically. “Plus, it’s not like Noel’s lyrics are any better.” 

“True,” Michael muses. “What’s that one about, fucking, Mr Soft?” Calum huffs out a laugh at that, leaning back on his bed. 

“Don’t remember a song about fucking Mr Soft,” he says, and Michael tuts, but Calum can hear the note of amusement in it. 

“Should’ve been that instead,” Michael says flippantly. “I reckon it would’ve been an improvement.” 

“Bit rich, coming from someone who’s got a song that half-consists of the word ‘parklife’,” Calum retorts, and Michael makes a noise of indignance. 

“That’s a fucking brilliant tune,” he says, and Calum can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Damon barely even sings on it,” Calum says. 

“Shouldn’t do, either, for what we had to pay Phil Daniels,” Michael remarks. “Damon’s obsessed with getting these fucking features on. D’you know we’ve got Ken Livingstone lined up for our next album?” Calum can’t help but laugh out loud at that, bright and surprised. 

“Ken Livingstone?” he echoes. “Like,  _ Ken Livingstone?” _

“Yeah,” Michael says, and he sounds exasperated, but fond. “I don’t know what the fuck is going through Damon’s head most of the time, but it’s easier to just give him a pat on the head and go _aww, Damon, that's a lovely idea, what a clever boy you are_ than to try and understand him. Don’t have the energy for that. And I’m still making money, aren’t I?” 

“If your house is anything to go by,” Calum says. 

“Hey,” Michael says, mock-serious. “Let’s not talk about my house. Nice flat you’re buying.” Calum has to concede there, with a grin. He’s got a point. 

“Does Damon call all the shots, then?” he asks, a little curious. He doesn’t actually know much about Blur’s dynamic - they’re nowhere near as transparent as Oasis are, and all he really knows is what he’s heard from Michael, which seems to be that they’re decent blokes and good friends, and what he’s picked up from the Oasis camp, which seems to be that they’re all Tories and that the jury’s still out on whether they’re the antichrist or whether that’s Liam. 

“What’s this, trying to infiltrate us?” Michael asks, but Calum can hear that he’s smiling. “He tries, but Graham won’t let him. We sort of step back and let them do their thing most of the time. Alex gets involved, sometimes, but I think Graham and Damon like the fighting.” Calum hums, not really sure what to say to that, besides _sounds like Noel and Liam._

“You’d like Damon, I think,” Michael says, after a moment of silence. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Well, y’know. If your insane bandmates would let you.” 

“Yeah, well.” Calum shrugs, a little awkwardly, and casts his eyes back down at his lap, picking at his pyjama bottoms. Michael doesn’t say anything to that for a minute, just breathes down the phone line and lets the two of them simmer in a slightly-uncomfortable silence, and then he sighs. 

“I should go,” he says.  _ Don’t, _ Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t have a good enough reason to keep Michael on the line. Michael pauses, like maybe he’d been waiting for Calum to ask him not to go, and then sighs again. “Alright, well. I’ll see you at the NME awards, I guess.” Calum’s stomach twists. Shit. He’d forgotten Blur were going to be there. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Yeah, we’ll be there. Don’t think you’ll be able to miss us, the number of awards we’ve been nominated for.” Michael laughs at that, and it’s soft, but it’s a little wistful. Maybe Calum should have asked him to stay. Maybe he didn’t need a good enough reason. Maybe just wanting him to would have been reason enough. It’s too late now, though, because Michael’s saying  _ I don’t think anyone within a six mile radius of Liam can miss him, _ and Calum huffs out another laugh, but the smile accompanying it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“I’ll see you then,” he says, and then hesitates, and adds: “I mean-”

“I know,” Michael says quickly, and Calum’s grateful for it. “I promise not to even look in your direction all night.” Calum snorts. 

“What’re you going to do when we’re up on stage collecting all the awards we’ve beaten you to?" 

“Go to the loo,” Michael says immediately, and this time, the smile does reach Calum’s eyes. 

“You’ll be up and down like a fucking yo-yo,” Calum says. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, given the number of awards we’re up for,” Michael says, and it’s smooth and cocky, confident without being arrogant, and it sends something electric charging through Calum, knocking the breath out of his lungs and making his vision blur a little around the edges for a moment. What the fuck is that? 

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Calum manages to get out, proud of and relieved at how light and even his voice sounds. 

“Guess we will.” Michael’s voice is light and amused, but that searing edge of confidence is still there, and Calum has to swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll see you there.” 

“You will.” He hears Michael breathing for a moment longer, and then there’s a click, and he’s gone, leaving Calum sitting in bed, staring at the wall opposite him, mind finally kicking into gear and helpfully offering him an explanation for the way his heart’s racing in his chest and his breath coming out a little shorter and shallower than before. 

Arousal. 

\-------

They have a show in Hollywood on the twenty-second, which means Noel ramps up rehearsals for the week before they go, probably mostly because he just loves to wield power over them all. Calum doesn’t really mind, though, enjoys the way that Liam and Noel snipe at each other, the way Bonehead grumbles about needing to re-tune his guitar again because he can’t be bothered to restring it, the way that they all roll their eyes at Tony when he fucks up the rhythm for Supersonic again in the first few bars. 

Well, actually, he’s not enjoying that so much. 

See, he knows Tony’s not the best drummer, the same way he knows that Noel’s far from the best guitarist and he’s not the best bassist. They’re all getting there, though - Calum can hear how much better he sounds than even half a year ago - except for Tony. Tony’s not got any better, doesn’t even seem to care enough to try, content to get by with what he’s got away with doing so far and then go down to the pub for a pint or two and ring his missus when he gets back to the hotel, but it’s not good enough anymore. It might have worked when they were fighting tooth and nail to get on a bill, but now, when they’re selling out bigger and bigger venues, when they’re on a six-album contract and they’re in the running to be the biggest fucking band in Britain, it’s not enough. 

The tension’s been mounting for a while, the exasperated looks Noel throws in Tony’s direction turning to scornful, to ugly, twisted lips and dark, furrowed brows, but so far, no one’s said anything. Liam might snipe at him a little more, might seek him out to get out his pent-up anger when Noel’s tired of fighting with him, and Noel might snap at him faster, might say  _ Jesus, you’re fucking incompetent  _ with absolutely no shred of fond exasperation, but no one’s said anything. It’s only a matter of time, though, Calum thinks, as he watches Tony falter on the beat again and Noel turn around, fingers stilling on the strings, shoot him a furious look and say  _ d’you feel up to doing your fucking job today, or what? Should I do it myself?  _ They’re going to have to address it at some point. 

Not now, though. Now, they’re flying to America again, and Calum’s trying to get Liam to go to sleep on the flight instead of demanding peanuts from the poor air hostesses every two minutes, and Noel’s turning around in his seat and saying  _ stop kicking me, you dick _ to Bonehead, who just shrugs and kicks harder, and Tony’s pretending to nap across the aisle. Everything’s in its strange, fragile balance, and none of them want to be the first to upset it. 

The show in Hollywood goes well enough - which is measured by the fact that Noel only had ten minutes of criticisms to hand out, rather than the usual twenty - and then they’re flying back to the UK, drugged-up and exhausted from jumping back and forth across timezones, being ushered into a hotel in London and told  _ you’ve got a day off, and the NME awards in the evening. That’s a  _ human _ evening, Bonehead, not fucking midnight. _ Calum’s sharing with Liam that day - or is it night, he can’t fucking tell anymore - and they just fall right into bed and sleep for sixteen hours, only waking up at five in the afternoon when someone hammers on their door and shouts  _ Noel says to wake you up, and to tell you that you’re lazy cunts.  _ Liam rolls over, and blinks blearily at Calum. 

“Time’s it?” he mumbles, and Calum squints at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock balanced precariously on the edge of his bedside table. 

“Five,” he says. Liam groans, and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. 

“Fucking Noel,” he says. “Don’t even have to leave for another hour. Prick just wants to torture me.” 

“Probably,” Calum agrees, because that sounds like Noel. Liam groans again, rubs at his eyes, and then pushes himself up on his elbows, looking back over at Calum. 

“Did we raid the minibar last night?” he asks, and Calum thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head. Liam smiles, satisfied, and swings his legs out of bed, stretching and yawning as he gets to his feet. 

“Perfect,” he says, heading straight for the little fridge under the desk. “Noel can pay for these, then.” Calum just rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning when Liam winks at him over his shoulder and tosses him a little bottle of vodka. 

They drink the entire minibar between them, and by the time they’re heading out for the car that’s waiting to pick them up, Calum’s laughing at everything Liam’s saying, skin pleasantly warm and tingling, which is just encouraging Liam to say stupider and stupider things and gesticulate more and more wildly. Usually, Noel would nip that right in the bud, but he’s a little pink-cheeked himself, just laughs along at Liam’s antics and the weird little stories he tells on the journey to the venue. 

It’s fucking  _ packed _ when they get there, and Calum’s almost blinded when a few cameras go off in his face, and he barely has time to think  _ brilliant, bet I look fucking great in those _ before someone’s tugging on his sleeve and pulling him up the steps and inside. He’s still blinking away the blue-green-purple behind his eyes as he stumbles into the room, gets ushered to a table with the rest of them, and twists around in his chair, trying to drink in the rest of the room. 

It’s fucking packed, and it’s full of people Calum recognises from festivals and from magazines and newspapers - Elastica, Radiohead, Suede, Pulp - but he’s only really looking for one band. He’s trying to do it as subtly as possible, though, knows he doesn’t have a lot of time to look before Noel notices and gets shirty about it, but can’t find them anywhere in the crowd of people as people get up and sit down and lean around their table to talk to someone at another table. He turns back to his own band, tuning into the conversation that’s going on about whether or not they’d actually been nominated for Best Single; he'll just look for Michael the next time the Gallaghers have gone to take whatever it is they're on tonight.

There’s drink on the table, and there’s drugs in Noel and Liam’s pockets, and by the time the ceremony’s begun they’re all looking very fucking merry and pleased with themselves. The brothers actually manage to behave themselves, though, sitting back quietly as the first award - Best LP - is introduced. 

Of fucking course, it’s Blur. 

They watch as Blur traipse to the stage to a round of polite applause, looking very relaxed and pleased with themselves, coming from somewhere against the wall to the far left of the Oasis table, and Calum feels his heart start to speed up as he spots Michael at the back of the group, saying something to Graham with a smile on his face that makes Graham laugh too as they follow in Damon, Dave and Alex’s wake. 

Damon leans into the microphone, saying something about thank you to the fans, blah blah blah, but Calum’s just staring at Michael, willing him to catch his eye. Michael’s scanning the crowd in a way that Calum could mistake for idle if he didn’t see the slight narrowing of his eyes, the slight downturn of his lips. He’s looking at the back, then at the left, then somewhere around the middle, and then finally his eyes fall on Calum’s table, and his lips curve upwards ever-so-slightly. 

And then, like Noel and Liam aren’t sat right fucking there, he winks. 

Calum knows what he’s saying.  _ First award goes to me, eh?  _ Fucking cocky little shit, he thinks, through the haze of alcohol, but it makes his next intake of breath a little sharper all the same. 

“Pricks,” Liam says derisively, reaching for another beer. Calum hums his agreement, but his eyes don’t leave Michael, who’s now trying to suppress a fully-fledged smile. Calum shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and reaches for his own beer, just for something to put between himself and Michael. 

Damon finishes his speech, thank you to their management, blah blah blah, and then they’re heading back off the stage, and Michael breaks his eye contact with Calum easily, like it’s nothing, tossing another nonchalant comment that Calum can’t make out in Damon’s direction. It sort of stings, seeing how easily Michael can act like it's nothing,  but it’s also an odd relief, because Calum’s all too aware of the two fuckers he’s sat between. 

He’s downed another beer by the time the next award’s being announced - Best Single - and it looks like they have indeed been nominated for it, because they win it. 

“Fucking get in,” Liam crows, getting to his feet, and Noel doesn’t even have it in him to do anything but cuff him upside the head fondly as they head for the stage. 

“None of you cunts deserve this,” he says, as they jog up the steps. “Least of all you.” He directs the last part at Tony, but unlike the first half of his sentence, it’s got an edge of venom to it, a bit of Noel’s cruel streak leaking through. Calum shoots Noel a sharp look as they head for the podium, because tonight is not the fucking night, and shakes his head. 

“Don’t be a cunt,” he says, and Noel just shrugs, turning away from him to accept their award and then stepping over to lean into the microphone. Liam’s there too, quick as a fucking flash, not willing to let Noel have any more than about forty percent of the limelight, and Calum just rolls his eyes and steps back, deciding to just let the fucking shitshow happen. He’s got other things to think about, anyway - Blur had come from his left when he’d been sat down, so they should be sat somewhere on what’s now his right, and he frowns as he scans the room, squinting into the bright stage lights as he tries to make out the all-too familiar shape of Michael sat at a table.

He actually spots Damon before he spots Michael, and he feels an odd stab of excited anticipation make his heart lurch as his eyes slide around the table, like he’s a fucking fifteen year old with a crush again. There’s Graham, Dave, some woman he doesn’t know, Alex- 

Luke.

Fucking hell. 

He’d completely forgotten, somehow, that Luke - and Ashton, who’s sat right next to him - were going to be here. It makes his stomach tighten, seeing the two of them again in this unfamiliar context, makes him blink like they’re going to fucking disappear if he tries hard enough. Luke’s hair is long, now, curly like it always used to be after they’d been swimming at Bondi Beach, and he’s broad as  _ fuck, _ fills out the shirt he’s wearing in a way that would probably make Calum’s mouth water if it were anyone other than Luke. Ashton looks older, too, has his sleeves rolled up far enough to expose  _ very _ muscled arms, hair dyed black and one slightly-curled strand falling into his eyes. He’s got his hands in front of him, clasped together and elbows on the table, and Luke’s leaning back in his seat, one arm around the back of Ashton’s chair, leaning into him a little. They look the same, and they look so different. 

Calum doesn’t even realise Liam and Noel are done with their antics until Bonehead shoves at him with his shoulder and inclines his head with a frown, signalling  _ get off the fucking stage, you prat. _ It only just occurs to his alcohol-addled mind to flick a quick glance over at Michael, who’s grinning up at him easily, even looking a little proud, and it makes Calum’s already-leaden stomach flip somehow, in a way that he thinks  _ might _ be pleasant but isn’t entirely sure about. 

He follows the rest of his band off the stage in a daze, almost trips over his own feet at least four times on his way back to the table, drawing enough attention to himself that Liam throws him a frown as they sit down, concern for Calum cutting through all the drink and drugs in his veins. 

“What’s up with you?” he asks, managing to make it sound hostile somehow. Calum blinks at him. 

He can say it, can’t he? It’s not like they’ve got any shit with Luke and Ashton. Well, Noel probably will on principle, but anyone who isn’t the most vindictive person on the planet shouldn’t have. 

“I, uh,” he says, and clears his throat as he realises Noel’s tuned into the conversation too, even though he’s still facing the stage, sitting far too still as he listens to what Calum has to say. “I saw the Blur table. Michael’s brought two of my best mates from Sydney.” 

“Oh,” Liam says, sounding a little disappointed, like he’d been expecting something juicier than that. “D’you wanna go and say hi?” That gets Noel to turn around, to shoot Liam a furious glare. 

“Are you insane?” he demands. 

“What?” Liam says defensively. “They’re his mates.” 

“They’re with Michael.”

“So? They’re still Calum’s mates.” 

“They’re  _ with Blur.” _ Liam scoffs. 

“Don’t be so fucking unreasonable,” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the applause as the next award is announced - Calum has no idea what it is, but Blur are receiving it again. Noel laughs incredulously, and his eyes are narrowed and cold, and Calum thinks  _ for fuck’s sake, not again.  _

_ “I’m _ being fucking unreasonable?” Noel says. 

“Yeah, you fucking are,” Liam says stubbornly. “What the fuck have they done? They’re not in Blur, are they?” 

“They’re-” Noel cuts himself off, throwing his hands up in the air, like the fact that Liam’s not on his side on this is beyond him. Liam throws him one last look, and then turns back to Calum. 

“D’you want to say hi?” he asks again, and Calum hesitates. He’s not really sure. 

“Jesus, why don’t you ask him if he wants to fuck Mike again too, while he’s at it?” Noel says scornfully, which makes Liam’s eyes flash with anger for a moment, and he rounds on Noel again. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. “Just fucking leave it.” 

“Leave it?” Noel echoes. _“Leave-”_

“Stop it," Liam says, something uncharacteristically firm and serious to his tone. "You’re making yourself too obvious.” That makes Noel’s mouth snap shut, but his jaw muscles continue to work furiously as he glowers at Liam, something so irate in his expression that Calum can’t even read it. He doesn’t want to, anyway, not when he sees the defiant set of Liam’s jaw and realises they’re having one of those brotherly _we know something you don’t know_ moments, sees the silent conversation occurring between the two of them and just waits it out, waits for one of them to snap. It’s Noel this time, folding his arms and sitting back in his chair, still glaring at Liam, but Liam seems to know what he means by that, because he throws Noel one final look that looks almost like those _I’m disappointed in you_ looks that Noel so often sends Liam, and turns back to Calum again. 

“Let’s go over,” he says. 

“Not now,” Noel says sternly. Nothing to do with Blur, though; this is Noel’s business voice. “We’re in the middle of a fucking awards ceremony.” 

“So?” Liam says, with a carefree shrug. 

“No.” Liam looks like he wants to argue for a moment, but Noel holds his gaze, and eventually Liam sighs and slumps back in his seat. 

“Fine,” he says sullenly, but before Noel has time to say something cutting in response, everyone around them is jumping to their feet and cheering. 

“What?” Calum says to Bonehead, who throws him a funny look. 

“Best new band,” he says, and Calum’s heart clenches, but in a way that he definitely likes. 

Fucking hell, he thinks, as he gets to his feet and grins broadly at Noel, who grins back, the previous conversation completely forgotten. Well, that makes him two-for-two with Michael, doesn't it?

\-------

Oasis end up winning three awards, eclipsed only by Blur, who take home  _ five. _ Liam claims that they win four, though, because Alan wins the Godlike Genius award, and  _ he’s basically Oasis, innit? Oh, fuck off, Noel, you’re not Oasis. If anything, right, I’m Oasis, ‘cause-  _ and then Calum tunes out. 

Someone mentions something about an afterparty, because of course they do, and everyone agrees enthusiastically. They’re all getting to their feet when Liam turns to Calum with a look of surprise on his face, like he’s just remembered something. 

“Your mates,” he says, and Calum swallows. His mates. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh- yeah. I might-” he cuts himself off, but Liam gets it, and nods. 

“Want me to come over with you?” he says, and Calum hesitates.  _ No, because I’m not sure I can handle the guilt of being around you and Michael at the same time _ is thrown up at him by his mind, but his heart says  _ yes, please. I’m scared. I need you there. _

“Can you refrain from calling them all cunts for five minutes?” Calum says, because he can’t say  _ please,  _ and Liam grins, a sparkle in his eyes. 

“Guess we’ll find out,” he says cheerily, and skirts around the edge of the table, making a beeline for the table Blur are gathered around on the other side of the room, lingering and laughing at something Michael’s saying with big, grand hand gestures. He can feel Noel’s eyes on the two of them as he jogs to catch up with Liam, who strides like a fucking maniac despite the fact Calum’s got a good three or four inches on him, but he doesn’t say or do anything. That’s almost more dangerous, though, Calum thinks, because Noel never forgets, just files the information away to act upon later. He doesn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the speed with which Liam’s powering towards the table means they’re there before Calum’s really realised they’ve crossed the room, the band and the other assorted people that Calum doesn’t know blinking at them curiously. Well, blinking at Liam curiously, Calum thinks, stomach bottoming out. They all know about him and Michael talking again, don’t they? Do they know that Liam doesn’t know? Do Calum’s fucking rivals know how Calum’s betraying his own best friend? 

“Who’re you?” Liam says to Luke and Ashton, ever the fucking diplomat. “Cal says you’re his mates from Sydney.” The two of them blink at Liam, clearly not entirely sure what to make of him or the situation, until Ashton clears his throat. 

“Uh, yeah,” he says, and Calum’s next exhale comes out a little shaky at the sound of his voice. It’s so fucking familiar, has the same intonation and confidence it’s always had, and the same thick Australian accent that both he and Michael have lost along the way. 

“I’m Liam,” Liam says, completely oblivious to the entire group of people staring at him like he’s absolutely insane. Well, Calum supposes, he must be used to that. Pretty much everyone stares at Liam like he’s insane, most of the time. 

“Oh,” Ashton says, and shoots Michael a look, like he’s not sure what to do. “I mean. We know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “We really like your album.” Liam grins. 

“‘Course you do,” he says breezily. “It’s fucking brilliant.” 

“We’ll see you at the party, Mike, yeah?” Damon says, and throws Michael a pointed look. Michael just shrugs, and Damon looks at the rest of the table, who all kick themselves into gear and start slowly ambling away from the table as they shrug their coats on, mumbling to each other too quietly for Calum to hear. Damon’s the last to go, tossing Liam an easy smile, a glint in his eyes.

“Nice to see you again,” he says. 

“Fuck off,” Liam says, not even bothering to look away from Ashton, and Damon’s lips just twitch in an amused smile as he catches Michael’s eye, who rolls his eyes at him and shoos him away. He goes, though, turns on his heel and jogs to catch up with Graham, who’s been loitering a few tables away, seemingly waiting for him, and Liam leans forwards, rests his elbows on the vacant seat in front of him and puts his chin in his hands. 

“Who’re you, then?” he asks again. 

“I’m Ashton,” Ashton says. 

“I’m Luke,” Luke says, and his voice is deeper than Calum remembers. 

“Right,” Liam says, and then glances at Michael. “Are you gonna fuck off, or what?” 

“Me?” Michael says. “No, I’m alright.” Liam narrows his eyes at him, and Calum watches a flash of amusement cross Michael’s face before he schools his features into something convincingly solemn again. 

“Hey, Cal,” Ashton says, before Liam has the chance to tell Michael to get to fuck, or whatever, and Calum tears his gaze away from Michael to meet Ashton’s eyes. 

“Hi,” Calum says, throat suddenly dry. He clears his throat, and tries again. “How’re you?” Ashton blinks at him. 

“Good,” he says, “we’re good, yeah.” He glances at Luke, as if to anchor himself, and it makes Calum’s heart ache, makes memories of Luke doing the same to Ashton five, six, seven years ago bubble up in his mind. 

“Michael says you’re a teacher now,” Calum says, just for something to say, wanting to cry at the awkwardness of the atmosphere. It seems to be the right thing to say, though, because it makes Ashton’s lips hitch up in a smile, something warm reaching his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says. “Yeah, I teach RE.” Calum smiles at that, and he can’t help but glance over at Michael, thinking about their conversation a few weeks ago. Michael’s looking at him too, and their eyes lock for a split second, held together by a private memory, before Calum breaks it to look over at Ashton again. 

“Could’ve guessed that,” he says, and Ashton’s smile turns into a grin, something like relief tingeing it, like he hadn’t been quite sure how Calum was going to react to him. It emboldens Calum to add: “You and your fucking philosophy.” 

“Hey,” Ashton protests, but he’s still smiling. “Not all of us are cut out to be rockstars.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Michael says, and Calum remembers. 

“Oh, hey, d’you still play drums?” he asks, and Ashton wrinkles his nose. 

“‘Course he does,” Michael says. 

“Well, y’know-” Ashton starts cagily, but Michael interrupts him with a scoff.

“Oh, shut up,” he says in exasperation, rolling his eyes, but it’s utterly fond. “He’s the fucking man of the scene in Sydney.” 

“You’re in a band?” Trust Liam to be suddenly interested. 

“I- well, I’m in a few-” 

“You’re in a  _ few?” _ Liam frowns, and pauses, before asking: “Are you really fucking good, or really fucking shite?” 

“Really fucking good,” Michael puts in, and Liam shoots him a glare. 

“Did I ask you?” He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, though, just rounds on Luke, and asks, blunt as fucking anything: “D’you talk?” Luke’s eyes widen, and he looks so much like that seventeen-year-old that Calum had left behind that it makes Calum’s head spin for a moment. 

“Don’t be a cunt,” Calum tells Liam sharply, who turns enough to throw Calum a look over his shoulder. 

“Just asking a fucking question,” he says, but it’s grumpy, which means he’s going to relent. 

“Michael says you’re a pilot,” Calum says, to try and ease the tension, and Luke’s eyes flit to him. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“That’s pretty cool,” Calum says, and Luke hesitates, and then smiles. 

“Coming from you,” he says, and Calum grins back. 

“International rockstar’s a pretty good job,” he agrees, and Luke’s smile turns into a full-blown grin too. 

“Is that what you write down on visas?” he says, and Calum snorts. 

_ “I _ don’t, but this prick does,” he says, nodding at Liam, who just smiles inanely. 

“Not gonna lie to the authorities, am I?” he says, and Luke, Ashton and Michael all laugh, and it’s  _ real. _ It’s not forced, it’s not polite, it’s real and amused and warm, and Calum thinks he might have ascended to another fucking plane of existence, seeing his two best friends from Sydney, his best friend now, and his- well, whatever the fuck Michael is, all getting on, if only for a moment. 

It hurts, though, because he thinks  _ this is what it could be. This is what I could have, if Noel and Liam weren’t such fucking cunts.  _

“Right, are you done?” Liam says, straightening up again. “We’ve got drugs to take.” Michael rolls his eyes, and Luke and Ashton look a little startled, and Calum thinks  _ oh, fucking hell,  _ but he sighs, and steps back. 

“We’re in the UK ‘til Saturday,” Ashton says. “We, uh. It’d be nice to see you. If you have time?” Calum blinks at him. Fucking hell, he doesn’t know his own schedule; he just jumps when Noel tells him to. 

“I, uh,” he says, but Liam speaks for him. 

“Could do Friday,” he says. “If you can come to Manchester.” Ashton glances at Luke, who shrugs. 

“I mean- yeah, sure,” he says, and Liam nods, satisfied. 

“Seven at the Vic on Burnage Road,” he says. 

“Is this an open invitation?” Michael asks mildly, and Liam glares at him. 

“Not to you,” he snaps, and puts his hands in his pockets. “Right, well. Nice to meet you. Me and Calum’ve got toilet lids to be getting to know. See you Friday.” Calum just blinks, not entirely sure what’s just happened, watching as Liam slopes away. 

“Uh,” he says intelligently. “Sorry about him.” 

“He’s…” Luke trails off, and Calum can’t help but huff out a laugh. 

“Yeah, he is,” he says, but he can’t hide the fondness and pride in his voice. “I- sorry, I really should- Noel’s-” 

“No, no, don’t worry,” Ashton says. “We’ll see you on Friday.” Luke’s still watching Liam, who’s now hovering in the door and throwing Calum an impatient glance, apprehension etched on his features.

“Will he be there?” he asks.

“I- uh. Seems like it.” Which is fucking insane. 

“Right.” Luke doesn’t sound too happy about that, but Ashton throws him a stern look, and he just sighs and then smiles at Calum. “See you on Friday, then.” 

“See you,” Calum echoes, and then throws Michael a glance. “I’ll-” 

“Yeah,” Michael says quickly, so Calum won’t have to say it. “Don’t worry. I know.” He smiles, and he means it, and Calum wants to cry. He doesn’t deserve Michael. 

He turns on his heel and jogs to the door, still trying to process what the fuck’s just happened. It must be written all over his face, because Liam frowns at him when he gets to the door, and then squares himself, looking a little hostile.

“What?” Liam says defensively,. “They’re your mates, aren’t they?” 

“Well, yeah, but-” 

“And  _ they’re _ not in Blur.” Calum hesitates. 

“You don’t have to,” he says, and Liam shrugs. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says easily, pushing open the door to the venue. There are no photographers outside, now, just a few wannabe groupies hanging around and a couple of cars still waiting to ferry people from the venue to their hotels or the afterparty. It’s one of those that Liam opens the door to, clambers into without holding the door open, meaning it almost shuts on Calum as he follows, just about managing to get his leg in without the door slamming on it. “But they were important to you, weren’t they?” 

“Well- I mean, yeah, but-”

“That’s that, then.” He blinks steadfastly out of the window as Calum stares at him for a moment, drunk brain trying to understand what’s going on, what Liam's doing for him, and why he's doing it.

God, he thinks, as the familiar guilt settles deep in his veins again. He doesn’t deserve Michael, and he doesn’t deserve Liam, and neither of them deserve what Calum's doing to them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this the latest i've ever posted a chapter...i think so. we are going to pretend that i'm not in bst everyone headcanon that i live in est or smoething right now. i am so tired i can't even express it to you so please don't hold me responsible for anything in this chapter unless you liked it in which case please validate me i'll take it 
> 
> as ever! my love sam! dealing with all my highlighting in the doc! helping me with my insane ideas! and my love meg! being the literal soul of this fic! having to deal with the flightiest waiter ever at nandos! i love the both of you so much and i will, imminently, be laying my life down for u both. and also to my little anonymous friend who i like to pimp out in my a/ns for no reason other than i love you...now i can also thank you for letting me steal some of your lines for this fic over the chapters <3 
> 
> anyone remember the pretty reckless...they had some bangers. what are they up to now i'm actually scared to google taylor momsen someone inform me

Calum doesn’t wake up until about seven in the evening on his birthday. 

He doesn’t get back to the hotel until nine in the morning, and then is far too high to sleep, and Liam convinces him it would be a great idea to simply stay up, to drink two cups of coffee to complement the coke still buzzing through his veins. And, in fairness, it _is_ a great idea, until the caffeine crash and the coke comedown hit at the same time and Calum feels numb, empty, exhausted, and simply falls into bed fully-clothed, passing out with his shoes still on. He sleeps brilliantly, though, probably courtesy of the alcohol that his liver is definitely still battling, and feels strangely well-rested when he wakes up, only the faint hint of bitterness in his throat and a swathe of blank memory to remind him of the night before. 

He’s woken up by the sound of a shrill ringing, and thinks _fuck’s sake, why’d I set a fucking alarm,_ but when he opens his eyes and sees the broken clock on the bedside table, he realises it’s the phone. He struggles up onto his elbows, reaches over and picks up the handset a little clumsily, and clears his throat as he brings it to his ear. 

“Yeah?” 

“Noel said not to call you before seven,” he hears a displeased voice say - his mum. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, and pushes himself into a seated position, rubbing at his nose and casting a glance over at Liam’s empty bed. “Uh. Had a late night.” He can picture her pursing her lips in the kitchen, one eye on the clock above the door, as she hums disapprovingly. 

“Well,” she says, in that faux-diplomatic way that means _I entirely_ _disapprove,_ _but I can’t tell you that explicitly because you’re an adult now, so I’m just going to make it very obvious instead._ “I just called to say happy birthday.” Oh, right. Yeah. It’s his birthday. Fucking hell, he’s twenty-three now. That’s a proper adult age, isn’t it? 

“Oh,” Calum says. He coughs, winces at the taste in his mouth, and then adds: “Thanks, Mum.” 

“Hmm,” she says disdainfully, and Calum inhales deeply, and tries not to roll his eyes. “Well, I was going to ask what your plans are for today, but it seems like you’re not going to have a lot of time for any.” Calum has to suppress a snort at that, looking over at Liam’s empty bed again. He’s got a fair idea where that boy might be on Calum’s birthday, and it starts with ‘d’ and ends with ‘ealer’. They’ll have plenty of fucking time for that. 

“I think we’re just going to, uh, go out, maybe,” Calum says evasively. 

“For dinner?” God, yeah, food. Calum should probably eat something. 

“Uh, yeah, maybe.” His mum hums again, but this time it’s a little more approving, like she’s pleased her son is at least capable of carrying out basic human survival functions without being reminded.

“That’ll be nice,” she says. “Hang on a minute, I’ll give you to your dad,” she says, and then there’s a muffled shuffling sound and the sound of heavy breathing. 

“Calum?” his dad says, like it’s going to be anyone else. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. 

“Your mum’s instructed me to wish you a happy birthday.” Calum snorts.

“Cheers,” he says. 

“She looks very unimpressed,” his dad tells him, and Calum can hear the little smile in his voice. “Can’t tell whether it’s at you or me.” There’s a pause, and then: “Seems like it might be both. Late one last night?” Calum can’t help but smile himself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Didn’t get back until nine this morning.” His dad whistles lowly. 

“Oh, to be young again,” he says, mock-wistfully, and Calum laughs. “Well, I won’t keep you from- uh. Tonight’s festivities. Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” 

“Thanks,” Calum says, grinning at the wall. He supposes both his and Mali’s predisposition for enjoying intoxication has to come from somewhere. 

“Oh, hang on,” his dad says. “Your mum wants to speak to you again.” 

“Tell her not to bother if she’s going to lecture me about sleeping or drinking too much-” Calum starts, but it’s too late; the phone’s being passed back over again. 

“Calum?” Calum rolls his eyes. Who the fuck else would it be? 

“Still me.” 

“No need to be facetious,” his mum says, but she doesn’t mean it. “Hang on a minute.” There’s a rustling noise that sounds like the phone being pressed into her chest, and Calum can make out a muffled _David, could you find me that risotto recipe that was in the newspaper today? It’s in the living room. No, I just want to talk to Calum for a minute. I know I can get it myself, but I’m asking you to-_ before he tunes out, taking the opportunity to squeeze his eyes shut, trying to will away the headache that’s slowly building behind his eyes. 

“Calum?” Calum’s eyes fly open again. 

“Yeah?” 

“Michael rang earlier.” Calum’s stomach flips. 

“What did he want?” There’s a pause, like his mum’s not entirely sure he’s being serious or not. 

“What d’you think?” she deadpans, and Calum’s only brain cell sighs dramatically, and reluctantly kicks itself into gear again. Oh, right, yeah. It’s his birthday. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “What did you say?”

“I gave him your number,” his mum says. “But passed on Noel’s message.” Calum’s heart skips a beat. What the fuck? Did his mum tell Noel that he and Michael are speaking again? Did Noel give her a message to pass on to him? Does Noel know that Calum’s been lying to them? Is Calum getting kicked out of the band on his fucking birthday?

“Noel’s message?” He must manage to conceal the panic in his voice, because his mum just sighs, exasperated. 

“Not to call before seven,” she says. “Jesus Christ, Calum. Are you even awake?” 

“Sort of,” Calum says, and she tuts, but Calum can hear that it’s around a smile this time. 

“Well, I just thought I’d warn you,” she says. 

“Thanks, Mum,” he says, and he really means it. _Thanks for telling me, thanks for giving Michael my number here, thanks for not telling Dad, thanks from the bottom of my fucking heart for not telling Noel._

“That’s alright,” she says, and it comes out a little softer than Calum would have liked, like she understood at least some of what he meant. "Anyway, I’ve got to go and make dinner now. What time are you getting home tomorrow?” Good fucking question. 

“I’ll ask Noel,” Calum says. “Afternoon, maybe?” Then he remembers it’s his birthday today, and that Liam's definitely out scoring drugs- “Uh, actually, maybe evening.” 

“Well, should I make dinner for you?” 

“Can you leave me something to heat up?” 

“Alright.” Calum smiles.

“Thanks, Mum,” he says again, and then the door opens, and Liam comes crashing in.

“Happy fucking birthday,” he announces, waggling a little bag of coke in Calum’s face, and Calum’s mum tuts in his ear. 

“Is that Liam?” 

“Is that your mam?” Liam asks, spotting the phone. “Tell her hi from me.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says to his mum, and swats the bag away, shaking his head at Liam as he throws himself down on his bed, not even bothering to take his shoes off. “He says hi.” 

“Tell him hi from me too,” his mum says, and she’s clearly trying to sound annoyed and failing miserably. Calum swears her soft spot for Liam exceeds even her love for her own children, honestly. “And please tell him not to give you too much cocaine tonight.” Calum’s stomach drops. She doesn’t know that, surely? Did Noel tell her that, too? _Don’t call before seven; your son’s probably still blitzed from last night?_ It’s not like she doesn’t know the rest of them do it - the whole fucking country knows; what was that fucking interview about sprinkling cocaine on their cornflakes? - but Calum’s never said anything, always just laughed in the background while Liam exaggerated how many grams he would snort before going onstage just to see the look on the interviewer’s face. 

“Oh, come on, Calum. I was young once, too,” his mum says, like she can sense what he’s thinking, and Calum blinks. He’s not entirely sure what he wants to ask. _How did you know I do coke? How did you know Liam gives it to me? How long have you known? Why have you never said anything before?_

“You did coke?” His mum laughs, and Liam shoots him a mildly interested glance. 

“And then some,” she says. What the fuck? 

“I always thought-”

“What, you thought your dad was the one you got it from?” She laughs again, like the very concept is ludicrous. “Yeah, right. Have a good night, Cal.” 

“I- uh, yeah, okay. Thanks, Mum,” Calum says, a little stunned, staring at Liam, who shrugs at him. The phone goes dead, and it takes a moment for Calum to register the dial tone, and he just slams it back down on the receiver, slightly dazed. 

“Your mam did coke?” Liam sounds interested. Calum blinks. What the fuck?

“Apparently,” he says. Liam grins. 

“Have I ever mentioned that I fucking love her?” he says happily, and Calum blinks again, shakes himself out of it, and rolls his eyes. He’ll worry about that another day.

“Fuck off,” he says, and stretches, cracking every bone in his spine, much to Liam’s displeasure. 

“Fucking stop,” Liam says, wincing. "Just because you're twenty-three now, Jesus."

“It’s my birthday,” Calum says, and cracks his neck too, just for good measure. “You’ve got to be nice to me.” 

“Me?” Liam says, sounding scandalised, like the very concept of Liam being rude to Calum is inconceivable. “I’m always nice to you.” 

“You call me a cunt about seven times an hour.” 

“Well, you are a cunt, aren’t you?” Calum rolls his eyes, and chucks a pillow in Liam’s direction, but Liam’s too quick for him, laughing as he rolls off the bed and hits the floor with a thud. “C’mon, get dressed. I want tea.” 

“What’s everyone else doing?”

“Waiting for you, you lazy sod.” 

“What d’you mean, lazy?” Calum says, faux-outraged, as he gets to his feet. “Didn’t go to fucking sleep until one in the afternoon.” 

“Neither did I, and I was up by five,” Liam says, and throws the pillow Calum had lobbed at him at Calum’s back as he heads for the bathroom. 

“Yeah, but you’re fucking insane,” Calum points out, jumping to the side to dodge the pillow. 

“Aye,” Liam says, and throws another pillow at Calum. “Get dressed, cocker.” 

“I’m fucking trying,” Calum says, flipping Liam off as he gets into the bathroom. He gets two fingers shoved up at him in return, and a tongue stuck out, and then another pillow gets hurled in his direction - Liam’s aim is far too good for someone running on four hours of sleep - and he slams the door shut, yelling _twat_ as he does and getting a _prick_ in return. 

God, he thinks, turning to the mirror and taking in the bags under his eyes and the limp state of his hair, but the smile spread across his lips. He's not sure there's anyone he'd rather spend his birthday with than Liam. 

(Green eyes, pink lips and blonde hair flash up in his mind, but he pushes them aside as he turns the shower on. He doesn't need to worry about that today.)

\-------

Noel, Bonehead and Tony are already firmly in the merry stage of drunk by the time Calum’s showered and dressed, but they’ve also ordered room service that they’ve barely touched in favour of the minibar, so Liam and Calum wolf down a pasta dish and some sort of cheesecake each as Bonehead and Tony wrestle on the floor and Noel crows delightedly, variously laughing delightedly or cheering and holding his beer in the air whenever Bonehead pins Tony down and gives him a light shake. They’re in such a good mood that they don’t even mind when Liam declares that the coke he’s scored is all for Calum, or when he produces another bag that he announces is for himself, get fucked, Bonehead, go and spend your own fucking money on drugs. Calum only does a few lines, just wants that pleasant buzz before they head out, and Liam lets Noel do one in exchange for the promise of him being allowed to kip at Noel’s Manchester flat tomorrow instead of going home, and then lets Bonehead do one after getting him to sing Blue Moon, much to his, Calum’s and Noel’s amusement. Calum’s feeling pleasantly buzzed by the time they tumble out of the hotel and into a car that takes them to a bar, and then pleasantly numb by the time he’s drunk his body weight in alcohol and been herded back into the car to go to a club, and then just pleasant by the time they get back to the hotel at six in the morning. 

They’re laughing, joking, stumbling around and getting filthy glare from the early-morning check-ins and checkouts, but none of them care, laughing too loudly at Liam’s antics to spare the lady at the reception desk a second thought as she tries to get their attention. Fuck her, Calum thinks, grinning at Liam as he slaps Noel on the head and then pulls him into a headlock. It’s his fucking birthday, and they’re rockstars. This is sort of par for the course, isn’t it? 

“Mr Hood?” she says, and he throws her a glance at the sound of his name. “I’ve got a message for you.” He frowns. 

“From who?” he says. The woman looks down at the piece of paper in her hand. 

“A Doctor Columbia called at eleven p.m.,” she says, and Calum frowns. He hasn’t been to see a doctor in ages.

“I don’t know a Doctor Columbia,” he says. 

“Columbia?” Liam yells, from about five metres away. “Fucking tune, that. _There we were, now here we are-”_

“All this confusion, nothing’s the same to me!” Noel joins in, shouting at the top of his lungs, and cackling as a passing couple tut and throw him a dirty look. It’s enough to pierce through the haze of drugs, alcohol and giddy ecstasy at the night Calum's had with his friends, though, to shove at that little corner of his memory that contains the night he’d written Columbia, and his stomach lurches. 

“Oh, right,” he says, and hurries over to the reception. “Yeah, him.” He holds his hand out for the piece of paper, and the receptionist hesitates for a moment before handing it over. Calum nigh on snatches it out of her hand, shoves it straight into his pocket without reading it, like if he scans the words Noel or Liam will somehow be able to read them in his mind. He gives her a brief smile before jogging back to the rest of his band, crowded around the lift, Bonehead swaying slightly on his feet as he leans against the wall, looking a little too pale for comfort. Calum can’t really bring himself to care too much, though, firstly because he’s not sharing a room with him and secondly because he’s too focused on the piece of paper burning a hole in his pocket. Noel and Liam are too preoccupied with nudging Bonehead in the lift and laughing as he groans and tries to stay steady to ask what the message was, and then Liam and Noel start bickering about whether Noel can revoke the promise he made to allow Liam to kip at his tomorrow night, which means Liam ends up following Noel into his room, not willing to give up his favourite form of entertainment that quickly. 

Calum doesn’t even wait for the door to his and Liam’s room to close before pulling out the piece of paper from his jeans, scanning the paper. 

_Dr Columbia_ , it says, followed by Michael’s home number. _Happy birthday, he’ll try and call again before rehearsals._

Shit. Calum needs to sleep, and so does Liam, and he doesn’t know when Michael’s fucking rehearsals are. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because as though his life were a movie, the room’s suddenly filled with a shrill ringing that makes Calum’s stomach lurch, and he’s not sure whether it’s the alcohol or the shock or the anticipation of it being Michael, but his palms are already sweaty when he picks up the receiver and brings it to his ear. 

“Hello?” God, he sounds breathless, like he’s been waiting for this call, like when he was fourteen and used to sit by the phone in the hallway, desperate for Michael to ring. 

“Cal?” It’s Michael. 

“Hey.” It comes out a little slurred, and there’s a moment of silence. 

“Have you slept?” Michael asks, sounding amused. 

“In my life? Yeah.” Calum pauses, before carefully adding: “Tonight?” Michael laughs, and Calum can’t help but smile too. His heart feels like it’s racing and thudding steadily at the same time, the strange combination of giddy excitement and familiar comfort making him feel like he’s split in two. 

“Idiot,” Michael says, but he’s smiling. “Are you still in London?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, and sits down on his bed. “We’re heading back this afternoon.” Michael hums. 

“Good birthday, then?” he says. 

“Think so,” Calum says. “I mean, it can’t be bad if I don’t remember it, can it?” Michael snorts.

“Well, it’s a bit late now, but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” he says. Calum looks back down at the piece of paper in his hand, and can’t help the tiny smile that flits across his lips. _Dr Columbia. Happy birthday._

“Doctor Columbia?” Calum says, and Michael laughs again, softer and fonder this time. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be _too_ obvious, did I?” he says. “I didn’t know who’d be around.” 

“Gave yourself a title and all,” Calum says. 

“Well, why not live out my fantasies?” Michael says. “Might as well go the full monty if I’m already lying about my identity, right?” Calum grins, and stretches out on the bed. 

“Could’ve picked a better title, then,” he says. “What about Admiral?” 

“Admiral Columbia?” Michael says sceptically. “Sounds like an American cartoon character.” 

“Alright, Viceroy.”

“What the fuck is a viceroy?”

“I don’t know,” Calum says. 

“Is that even how you pronounce it?” 

“What, vis-a-roy?”

“Isn’t it vice-roy?”

“Thought you said you didn’t know what it was?” 

“Who said I do?” Michael counters. “Just know how to speak English, is all.” Calum makes a noise of indignance. 

“We speak the same fucking English, in case you forgot,” he says, even though that’s not really true anymore; he’s got a little bit of a Mancunian twang now, rolls _school_ and _pool_ around his lips before he lets the words out, and Michael’s accent has been diluted by southern English, softened in places and hardened in others. 

“Are you trying to tell me you think you still sound Australian?”

“I sound Australian enough,” Calum protests, and Michael huffs out a laugh. “Anyway, it’s not like you’re any better. Did Damon make you take elocution lessons before joining?” 

“‘Course,” Michael says. “The man has standards. Couldn’t let someone who says ‘aye’ into the band, could they? What would the Royal Academy have thought?” 

“Was that before or after he made you read Siddhartha?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Michael says, but the words are curled around a smile, and Calum finds he’s grinning too, cheeks hurting enough that he must have been smiling for a fairly long time without even noticing. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be calling to wish me a happy birthday?” Calum says. "I don't think you're meant to be a cunt to people on their birthday."

“Well, by my reckoning it hasn’t been your birthday for about six-and-a-half hours,” Michael says. “Looks like it’s a free-for-all, now.” 

“It’s still my birthday in some places,” Calum argues. 

“Not any places you’re in, though,” Michael points out, and Calum sighs dramatically. “I did try to call on your birthday, though,” Michael adds, a little softer. “I would’ve been nice to you if you’d picked up then. You brought it on yourself, really.” 

“What did you think would happen, ringing me at eleven p.m. on my birthday?” Calum says. “Did you think I’d be sat in bed with a cup of tea and the Telegraph?”

“No,” Michael says. “The Times, at least. I do think you have _some_ standards, Cal.” Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.

"Yeah, I'm already up for my morning exercise," he says, and then pauses, and frowns. “Hang on, what are _you_ doing up at six in the morning?” 

“We’ve got rehearsals at half-seven,” Michael says. 

_“Half-seven?”_

"That's what I said, yeah."

“What the fuck-”

“Damon.” Oh. 

“Fuck that,” Calum says spiritedly, like it’s him that’s got to get up early to go to a rehearsal. _“Fuck_ that.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Michael says, heaving out a sigh. “Some perks to it, though. Wouldn’t have caught you before you headed back to Manchester otherwise, would I?” He says it casually, lightly, like it’s nothing, like it’s something he’d say to anyone - which, honestly, he would; the words are nothing special - but there’s a hint of nervousness to it, a hint of anxiety that gives him away. _Some perks to it, though. I get to talk to you._ That’s what he’s really saying, and even Calum’s drug-addled mind can muddle its way through that. 

“Suppose,” Calum says, trying for equally casual, but his voice comes out far too nonchalant, like he’s trying his hardest to be offhand. Which he is, but he doesn’t want to _sound_ like it. “Nothing like insulting someone on their birthday to start the day off, right?” Michael laughs again, amused and pleased, and it sends a little electric shock right into the space between Calum’s heart and his ribcage. 

“I told you, I wouldn’t have insulted you if you’d picked up on your birthday,” he says. “You’ll have to wait ‘til next year, now.” He’s joking, but it makes Calum’s stomach flip all the same, the easiness with which he says _next year,_ like it’s a guarantee they’ll still be in each other’s lives by then, like Calum won’t have imploded or exploded or blown everything with either him and Michael or him and Oasis up. 

“Yeah,” he says, and a little of the heaviness of that last thought finds its way into his tone, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. Just you wait ‘til your fucking birthday.” Michael snorts. 

“I’ll be in bed with my cup of tea and the Times at eleven on the dot,” he says, and Calum huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes.

They lapse into silence for a moment, and then Michael sighs. 

“I should go,” he says, and he sounds a little regretful, like he doesn’t really want to.

“I should sleep,” Calum says. 

“You _should_ sleep,” Michael agrees. “Oh, I meant to tell you-” he’s cut off by the sound of the door crashing open and Liam stumbling in, looking furious. Calum yanks the phone away from his ear like he’s been burnt, holds it hard against his shoulder like Liam’s going to be able to hear and identify Michael’s voice from five metres away. 

“I’m going to kill Noel,” Liam announces angrily. 

“Alright,” Calum says. “Can you wait ‘til we’ve recorded the next album, though?” 

“No,” Liam says, and throws himself down on the other bed, hard. “I’m going to do it tomorrow.” 

“Fine,” Calum says. “Do it here, though, so visiting you in jail will be easier once I’ve moved.” Liam throws him a look. 

“I’ll do it where I fucking please,” he says. “Who’re you talking to?” 

“A friend,” Calum says. “Rang to wish me a happy birthday.” 

“At half six in the morning?” 

“Friend from Australia.” Liam hums, apparently appeased by that answer, and stares up at the ceiling. 

“Well, tell them to fuck off, ‘cause I want to sleep,” he says, even though he’s still fully-clothed, shoes and all, and making no move to get up. 

“Alright,” Calum says, and lifts the phone to his ear again, praying Michael’s voice will be quiet enough that Liam can’t hear it, even in the silence of the room. “My bandmate Liam says to fuck off.”

“Does he now?” Michael says, sounding amused. “Well. Guess I’d better, then, hadn’t I?”

“Guess you had,” Calum agrees. “I- uh. Thanks for calling.” It sounds too formal, now, with the way their relationship is shifting so quickly, the way that they’re falling into an old and yet new pattern of comfort and familiarity, and he hopes Michael knows why he’s saying it, hopes that he knows Calum can’t give himself away in front of Liam. 

“‘Course,” Michael says, and his voice is a little soft, and maybe even a little fond. Or maybe that’s the drugs and alcohol in Calum’s system talking. Or maybe wishful thinking. 

“I’ll speak to you soon, yeah?” Calum says, casting a nervous glance at Liam as he sighs dramatically, heaves himself out of bed and stomps over to Calum. “I’ve got to go.”

“I’ll see you t-” is all he hears before Liam’s hand comes slamming down on the receiver, cutting the phone call off and leaving Calum with a loud dial tone ringing in his ear. He pulls the phone away and puts it back on the hook, rolling his eyes and throwing Liam a look of _I can’t believe you,_ like it’s completely beyond the realms of possibility that Liam would be too impatient for Calum to end his phone call in a normal, polite way. 

“You dick,” Calum tells him, and Liam just shrugs as he throws himself back onto his bed and rolls onto his side. 

“Night,” is all he says, and then he’s dead to the world. 

Jesus Christ.

\-------

Noel insists on a rehearsal on Friday, but lets Calum, Tony and Bonehead shout him down from a morning rehearsal to an afternoon one, giving them all time to recover from the last few nights. Liam just shrugs, says _don’t know what the fuss is, I can be there are nine if you need, don't know what this hangover business is all about,_ which earns him a cuff upside the head from Calum, who tells him _you wouldn’t be there at nine unless you were told to be there at eight._ The downside to starting rehearsals later, though, is that Noel still wants to get through every song at least twice, which means that they’re late to the pub, and that it’s already full when they get there, which in turn means Calum spends a good two minutes craning his neck and walking back and forth to try and find either Ashton or Luke while Liam gets them drinks at the bar. Liam’s already back at Calum’s side with the drinks by the time Calum ends up spotting Ashton, grumbling something about _two pound for a beer, where do they think they are, fucking Mayfair,_ and he points the table out to Liam, tucked away in a dark little corner right at the very back of the pub. 

Half of the table is obscured by a diagonal beam going from the floor to the ceiling of the pub, meaning Calum can’t see Luke until he’s ducked around the corner and got a better angle, a clear view of the table that lets him see the way Luke’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something Michael’s said-

Oh, _fuck._

“Watch it,” Liam snaps, skirting sharply around Calum as he falters and almost trips over a fold in the carpet, too focused on the drinks in his hands to see what Calum’s seen. 

What the fuck is Michael doing here?

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Liam says suddenly, voice suddenly hot and hostile, and Calum can’t do anything but shake his head. He has no fucking idea. 

“I don’t fucking know,” he says. Liam doesn’t hesitate for a moment, just marches over to the table with Calum jogging behind him, slams the two beers down, making Luke jump and send him a distasteful look, and glares at Michael. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands. Michael holds up his beer. 

“Having a drink,” he says, cool as fucking anything in the face of the fire that’s Liam Gallagher. 

“Get to fuck,” Liam says fiercely. Michael arches an eyebrow. 

“Maybe when I’ve finished my beer,” he says. Calum grits his teeth, and shoots him a glare from where he’s hovering just behind Liam. Jesus Christ; is he trying to tear Calum’s life apart?

“I’ve got business in Manchester tomorrow,” Michael says smoothly, holding Liam’s fiery gaze with his own. It’s unnerving, watching Liam go up against an equal, Calum thinks; Noel’s never quite been an equal, always been able to quench Liam’s flames with his ice if it really needs doing, and no one else has ever quite had a fire in them that was big enough not to be swallowed by Liam's own.

“Right,” Liam says, “then you don’t need to be in my pub tonight, do you? Fuck off.” Michael’s other eyebrow rises too, and Calum watches the corners of his lips twitch in a tiny, amused smirk, and thinks _fuck, please, don’t._

“Your pub?” Michael echoes, amusement staining his tone. “Who are you, Phil Mitchell?” Calum can sense Liam’s hackles rising a split second before they do, and leans forward to put a hand on his arm the way Noel always does. 

“Liam,” he says, in the same warning tone, and Liam’s eyes flit to him for a second, blazing and furious. 

“I’m not fucking sharing a table with him,” he says irately, and out of the corner of his eye Calum watches Michael shrug, enjoying himself far too much. 

“So don’t,” he says. Calum grits his teeth. 

“C’mon,” he says lowly, hoping Michael can’t hear him, even though he’s all of two metres away. “Don’t give him what he wants.” 

“I’ll fucking give him what he deserves,” Liam retorts, anger lacing every single syllable. “Take it outside, if I have to.” 

“No, you won’t,” Calum says, trying to keep his voice firm like Noel does. “Don’t.” Liam’s muscles stay tense under Calum’s fingers, so he lowers his voice a little more, and adds: “You know Noel’ll kill you.” 

“I don’t give a _fuck_ what that cunt thinks,” Liam spits. 

“You’ll care when he kicks you out of the band.”

“What, for the twentieth time? I’m arsed. ‘S my fucking band, anyway.” But his muscles slacken a bit, relaxing a little under Calum’s touch, and Calum almost breathes out a sigh of relief, even though he knows it’s far from over. 

“You can go home,” he says. “No one’s forcing you to be here.” Wrong thing to say; Liam’s tense again, inhaling deeply, ready to maybe punch Michael or dropkick Calum, so Calum hastily lowers his voice so the rest of them won't hear and adds: “Look, I just want to hang out with my mates from Sydney, alright? Don’t make a fucking scene in front of them. Please.” That’s the right thing to say, apparently, because Liam wavers for a moment - Calum watches it cross his face; the kid’s always worn his heart on his sleeve - and then he deflates, shooting Michael a nasty look as he sags a little. 

“I’m not speaking to that cunt, though,” he says, talking to Calum but directing it at Michael, who shrugs with one shoulder. 

“Suits me,” he says. Liam hesitates another moment, like he really might just go and deck Michael, and then he yanks his arm out of Calum’s grasp and stomps around to the other side of the table, plonking himself down next to Ashton and opposite Michael, sending him another glower, as though the way he’s acted hasn’t already been enough. Calum pulls up the last spare seat - at the head of the table between Michael and Liam, because the universe thinks it’s got a great fucking sense of humour, apparently - and finally gets a chance to look at Ashton and Luke, who both look wary, frightened, shocked, and confused. It’s a look Calum’s got used to seeing on people who have to deal with Liam. 

“So, uh,” he says, searching for something to fill the tense, uncomfortable silence. “How d’you like the UK?” Luke blinks at him, like he can’t really believe Calum’s asking that, all _what are you, forty?_ but Ashton smiles, recognising that Calum’s just trying to kickstart a conversation. 

“It’s great,” he says, politely enthusiastic. “Uh. The weather’s a bit- y’know. We’re used to a warm January. But it’s- it’s nice. Lovely architecture.” Calum sort of wants to cry at that. He shouldn’t be talking to Ashton about British architecture. He remembers sitting on Ashton’s kitchen floor, so drunk the room was spinning and his stomach was somewhere between his chest and mouth, mumbling _I love him, how’m I gonna leave him, Ash, I love him,_ and now he’s making small talk with him. 

“What’s Australia like?” Liam asks suddenly. Ashton shoots him a slightly suspicious glance. 

“Has Calum never told you?” he asks. Liam shrugs, and takes a swig of his beer. 

“Might be different since he was there, mightn’t it?” he says. “Best to get it from the horse’s mouth, and all that.”

“I am the horse’s mouth,” Calum says, a little indignantly. “I left all of five fucking years ago.”

“Six,” Michael puts in, almost automatically, like the date is emblazoned on his mind, or something. He’s not wrong - it had been just after Calum’s seventeenth birthday - but it makes Calum’s stomach oddly light nonetheless, that Michael remembers it better than he does. 

“Fuck off,” Liam says, equally automatically, like he’s not even thought about it. “So? What’s it like? Everyone’s meant to be fit there, aren’t they? Reckon I’d fit right in.” Ashton looks a little alarmed, like he’s not really sure what to say to that - like he’s not even sure whether Liam’s being serious or not, actually - and Calum decides to step in, to try and bridge the gap between Liam and, y’know, normal fucking people. 

“Would you fuck,” Calum says, and Liam throws him a mock-glare as he takes another sip of his beer. 

“I fucking would,” Liam declares. “Probably why you had to leave, then, innit?” Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling as he lifts his beer to his mouth. 

“Fuck off,” he says, and Liam just shrugs, and then turns back to Ashton. 

“So?” he demands. 

“Uh,” Ashton says, shooting Calum a slightly nervous glance. “It’s- well, it’s nice. Warmer than here, most of the time.”

“Do you surf?” 

“What?”

“Do you surf?” Liam repeats. 

“I- no, I don’t.” Ashton hesitates, and then adds: “Luke does, though.” 

“You surf?” Calum blurts, before he can help himself. Luke’s renowned for having the fucking balance of a newborn giraffe. 

“Well, I can finally stand up on a surfboard after four long years of trying,” Luke mutters. “Not sure you’d call it surfing.” 

“Jesus,” Calum says. The last memory he has of Luke and surfing involved Ashton having to swim about half a mile out to sea to tow Luke back from where he’d somehow floated out on the surfboard he’d been clinging to, too scared to attempt to even sit on it. “How d’you have the time?” 

“I get a lot of time off,” Luke says. “Usually get a few days off at a time, and Ash is teaching during the day, so.” He shrugs, and it’s tense and awkward. “Have to find something to fill the time.”

“Could listen to our record,” Liam suggests, stretching out in his seat and slinging an arm around the back of Ashton’s chair. 

“I do,” Luke says. 

“What’s your favourite track?” Luke hesitates for a moment, before licking his lips and swallowing.

“Supersonic.”

“Doesn’t count,” Liam says flippantly. “That’s one of the singles.”

“For a reason.” Liam narrows his eyes at him for a moment, and Calum recognises it as his _I can’t decide whether I like his brazenness or hate it_ and thinks _oh, fuck,_ and then Liam grins. 

“Fucking right,” he says happily, reaching for his beer again. “It’s a tune, that one.” Calum lets out a quiet, shaky sigh of relief. 

“You think they all are,” he says, and Liam shrugs. 

“They are, aren’t they?” he says nonchalantly. “Eeyar, go on then, aren’t you meant to be catching up with your mates?” 

“Fucking trying,” Calum says. “You keep interrupting.” Liam raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up, then mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. Calum raises an eyebrow of his own, shakes his head, and says: “I don’t believe that for a fucking minute,” but seizes the opportunity of the few moments of silence he might get before Liam inevitably gets restless to turn back to Ashton and Luke. 

“So,” he says. “The two of you.” They glance at each other, and it makes Calum’s heart ache and sing, because that’s how he and Michael used to look at each other, and how they always wished Luke and Ashton would, too. _When are they going to fucking sort themselves out?_ Michael would ask, mumbling it into Calum’s chest, and Calum would sigh, fingers threaded through Michael’s hair, and say _fuck knows. We’ll be on our fucking deathbeds by the time they admit to liking each other._ And Michael would grin up at him and say _nah, they’ll sort themselves out before then. Maybe by the time we’re married._

And look at them now, Calum thinks, a little bitterly. He can see the way Luke and Ashton are looking at each other, the tiny little glances they’re sharing just to anchor themselves in each other, while he’s too afraid to look to his left and see Michael. It feels like a fucking cosmic joke, except it isn’t. It’s all his own fault. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, with a small smile. 

“Wanna tell me about that?”

“Well,” Ashton says, and he sounds a little apologetic. “I mean. I don’t really remember where we- uh.” Calum’s stomach does an unpleasant little twirl in his stomach. It’s been so long that Ashton doesn’t even remember where they left off. 

“Just- give me the full story,” Calum says. 

“Well,” Ashton says again, carefully, and looks at Luke again. “Michael says you two knew the whole time-”

“‘Course we fucking knew,” Michael interrupts. 

“I think the whole fucking school knew,” Calum says, and Luke grins down at the table. 

“I guess we weren’t that subtle,” Ashton says, and Luke huffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. 

“I think I pretty much defined pining,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Michael says pointedly. “It was fucking painful to watch.” 

“Cheers,” Ashton says sarcastically, and out of the corner of his eye Calum sees Michael throw Ashton an innocent smile. “We were at a party one night-”

“You went to parties?” Calum interrupts, aiming it at Luke. Luke looks up, surprised, and then shrugs. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little offhand. 

“He takes drugs, now,” Michael informs Calum. 

“Not _now,”_ Luke says hastily. “I’m a _pilot.”_

“You take drugs?” Liam’s perked right up. 

“What happened to shutting up?” Calum asks, but he knows it’s a lost cause, so just downs a good two-thirds of his beer as Liams forward in interest. 

“Not anymore,” Luke says. “I operate fucking aircraft.” 

“So?” Liam says blithely. “Reckon flying’d be a lot more fun if you were off your head.” 

“Yeah, for the half hour before I fucking crash the plane,” Luke says, and Liam shrugs. 

“Gotta die of something,” he says, and Calum shoots him an exasperated look. 

“You were at a party,” he says to Ashton, before Liam can start talking about that time people tried to snort his dead skin again, and Ashton takes the hint, speaking quickly before Liam has a chance to get a word in edgeways. 

“Yeah,” he says. “And- God. We were playing fucking Spin the Bottle-”

“No, it was that one where you have to get in a cupboard with someone,” Luke interrupts. 

“Yeah, but we were spinning a bottle to decide who, weren’t we?”

“Were we?”

“I don’t know, I was drunk.”

“I was high.” They blink at each other for a moment. 

“Well, we made out,” Ashton says suddenly, and Calum can’t help but laugh at it, even though his heart is sort of aching with the painful familiarity of Luke and Ashton’s interactions. “And it sort of- it went from there. We’ve been together four years, now.” Shit. Four years. That’s a long fucking time for Calum to not know. 

“Fuck,” he says, and he’s not sure quite how he means he means the _fuck, that’s a long time_ that it’s short for. “Well. I mean. I’m happy for you.” Ashton smiles at him, hazel eyes soft and warm. 

“Thanks,” he says. “What about you?” 

“What about me?”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Liam snorts, loud and derisive. 

“Is he fuck,” he says, like Calum’s not perfectly capable of answering for himself. 

“It’s, uh,” Calum says, shooting Liam a glare, “it’s a bit difficult, y’know. With the lifestyle.”

“Oh, yeah,” Luke says, with a grin. “The fucking rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Calum says, but he can’t help the smile that finds its way onto his own face. “We’re just- we’re all over the place. It’s difficult to find someone who can cope with that.” 

“Don’t need to, anyway,” Liam says breezily. “You can just find yourself a new girlfriend in every country, eh? Or boyfriend. Cal’s pretty good at getting both.” 

“Is he now?” Luke says, raising an eyebrow. “Thought you were a serial monogamist, Cal.” 

“A fucking what?” Liam asks. 

“Someone who jumps from relationship to relationship,” Ashton says. 

“Oh,” Liam says, and then snorts. “Is he fuck. Our Calum’s never known anyone for more than a night in his life.” 

“Hasn’t he?” Michael says lightly. Calum’s stomach and heart both lurch, and he almost sends Michael a sharp look, but Liam’s decided to be selectively deaf tonight, apparently, or maybe took something before they got to the pub, because he just barrels on with the conversation, like he hasn’t heard Michael at all. 

“What’re you doing in England, then?” he wants to know, and Calum drinks the last of his beer with slightly trembling fingers just to calm his nerves. 

“Just came to see Michael,” Ashton says. 

“How come you’re still in contact with him, and not Calum?” Fucking hell, Calum thinks, groaning internally and letting his eyes flutter shut so he won’t have to see the stricken looks on Ashton and Luke’s faces. 

“Don’t be a cunt,” he says to Liam, eyes still closed. 

“How’m I being a cunt?” Liam demands. “Just asking a fucking question.” 

“We just fell out of touch,” Calum mutters. “Leave it.”

“Nowt to do with-?”

“No, ‘course it’s fucking not,” Calum says, a little snappily. “Fucking leave it, Liam.” God, this was a mistake. A horrible fucking mistake. He can’t balance his best friend, his ex-best-friends, and his ex-and-ex-best-friend-cum-new-friend-and-maybe-more like this, can’t have all these dynamics bumping into one another and making a fucking din as they crash. 

“Alright, alright,” Liam says, a little stroppily, and sinks down low in his seat. “'M just trying to make fucking conversation.” 

“Well, don’t,” Calum says, a little too sharply, and watches a brief look of hurt cross Liam’s face before it’s swiftly replaced with indignant anger, and feels his stomach sink. He’s not being fair; Liam’s doing this for him, isn’t he? It’s not his fault he’s got the Gallagher gene of being unable to socialise like a fucking human being. 

“I’m going to go to the loo,” Michael announces loudly, and gets to his feet, brushing past Calum’s back as he pushes his way past and out of the little corner they’re tucked into. Calum tries his hardest not to shiver, but he sees the ghost of a smile on Michael’s lips as he walks away, so he’s clearly not all that successful at it.

“I might get another drink,” Luke says, and Ashton nods, getting up and fumbling in his pockets for his wallet. 

“I’m sorry,” Calum says after a moment, when Luke and Ashton are out of earshot. 

“‘M not trying to be a cunt,” Liam says, and it’s still sulky, even with the fury etched on his face. 

“I know,” Calum says. “I just- I don’t know how to talk to them yet.”

“But they were your mates.”

“Yeah, _were,”_ Calum says. “I don’t- we know fuck all about each other anymore. I’m just trying to figure it out.” Liam doesn’t say anything, so Calum sighs, and puts a hand over his. “I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re doing for me. And I love you, yeah?” There’s a moment of silence, and then Liam flips his hand so their palms are facing, grabs Calum’s hand, squeezes, and grins at him, all traces of hurt and anger gone. 

“I like the blonde one,” he says decisively, pulling his hand back over to fondle with his empty glass. “Doesn’t say much, but knows what he’s about.” 

“You just like him ‘cause you found out he does drugs,” Calum says, and Liam shrugs. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” he says. “Your mam does drugs.”

 _“Did_ drugs.” Liam waves a dismissive hand. 

“Same difference,” he says, like he’s never heard the basic rules of English grammar. “I fancy another drink. You owe me one.” 

“Do I fuck,” Calum says, even though Liam had bought his first round and Calum’s got no intentions of paying him back for it. 

“Two pints of Guinness,” Liam says, and Calum raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Two?” he says, even as he’s scraping his chair back and patting his pocket for his wallet. “Greedy cunt.” Liam smiles, all thick, long eyelashes and innocent blue eyes, and Calum rolls his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m going up for myself anyway.” Liam just grins and blows him a sarcastic kiss as he walks away, which Calum answers with a two-fingered salute, and as he heads towards the bar he realises he actually really needs to piss, so diverts and heads towards the toilets. They’re down a thin little corridor, the men’s right at the end by the fire exit, and he shoulders the door open without paying attention, bumping straight into- 

Michael. 

“Hey,” Michael says, and Calum glances into the corridor behind them - still empty - and then shuts the door, not letting Michael out. 

“What the fuck?” he says, and it comes out angrier than he’d intended. “What the hell are you doing here?” Michael looks surprised. 

“I told you I was coming,” he says. 

“When the fuck did you tell me that?” 

“Yesterday,” Michael says. “On the phone.” Calum has absolutely no recollection of that, but he was so fucking high and drunk that Michael could have announced he was joining Oasis and he’d be none the wiser. 

“Jesus, Michael, d’you know how off my head I was?” 

“Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do?” Michael says fairly. Calum groans, and presses his forehead against the cool tile wall next to the door. “Might not want to do that,” Michael adds lightly. “Don’t know what decade that was last cleaned.” 

“I don’t care,” Calum mumbles. “I can’t do this. I can’t handle you and Liam in the same place.” 

“I don’t think I’m the one to worry about,” Michael says pointedly, which is fair, but it still makes Calum’s hackles rise for a split second. “He’s absolutely fucking insane.”

“You knew that already.”

“It’s different seeing it up close.” Calum can’t help but snort at that, despite himself. 

“Imagine being in a band with him,” he says. 

“I’d rather not,” Michael says smartly, and Calum smiles, albeit weakly, and pushes himself back off the wall. “I’m glad I’ve got you here, anyway. I’ve got something for you.” Calum eyes him warily. He’s never been on his own in a pub toilet with a man and been told _I’m glad I’ve got you here_ and it lead to something innocent. Almost as though Michael can read his mind, though, his eyes widen a little, and he says: “No, I- like, I literally have something for you. And, uh, it’s not my dick.” Jesus, Calum thinks, choking a little on his next inhale, even as his treacherous little mind supplies _might not mind if it were._

“What is it?” Michael starts digging around in his pocket, and Calum adds: “Hang on, you’ve washed your hands, right?” Michael snorts, not even bothering to look up at him. 

“Who the fuck d’you take me for?” he asks, and then pulls a badly-wrapped little package out of his pocket. “Here.” He holds it out, and Calum puts out a hand for Michael to drop it in, wrapping his fingers around it when it’s safe and warm in his palm. 

“What is it?” Michael rolls his eyes. 

“D’you understand how presents work?” 

“It’s a present?” Michael stares at him. 

“You do realise it was your birthday two days ago, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Calum squeezes the little package. “I didn’t get you anything for your birthday.”

“Well, looks like I’m a better person than you, then,” Michael says flippantly. “Don’t open it here, though. Wait ‘til you’re home.” Calum nods. 

“Thanks,” he says, and it sounds both too quiet and too loud echoing off the tiles of the toilet. Michael smiles, a little sadly, and takes a step forward, so he’s all of half a metre away from Calum, close enough for Calum to be wrapped in his scent.

“Consider it me making it up to you for being a twat to you six-and-a-half hours after your birthday,” he says, and he’s saying something light-hearted but the way he’s murmuring it doesn’t sound light-hearted at all, and the way he’s bringing a hand up to cup Calum’s jaw and run a thumb across his cheekbone doesn’t seem particularly light-hearted either, and nor does the way Calum’s heart starts sounding an alarm and racing at the speed of fucking light like it’s trying to win the Great Blood-Pumping Contest of 1995. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, and it comes out a little croaky because of his dry mouth, and he finally tears his gaze from his hand and looks up at Michael. He’s really fucking close, now, dark eyelashes blinking over clear green eyes, and he’s really fucking pretty too, all smooth skin and pink lips, and then he’s leaning in, and Calum’s frozen to the spot, tied to the planet by nothing but Michael, Michael, Michael, and then Michael tilts his head so his lips are on the very corner of Calum's lips, pressing a soft kiss there. One, two, three seconds - too long, too short - and then he’s pulling back, hand dropping back to his side, taking a step back, green eyes flitting across Calum’s face, searching for some kind of a response. 

“Happy birthday, Cal,” he says softly, and Calum just blinks at him. 

So it’s like that, then. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i know last week i said that was the latest i uploaded it BUT this week its 2:15am currently and here we are i actually was almost done with this so long ago as in like an hour and a half ago BUT i got very distracted and so i only just remembered to finish it off here we are such is life 
> 
> i am very tired i have to say this is going ot be an incoherent a/n i might edit it tomorrow but me being me, i have left EVERYTHING i have to do until the last possible minute i move to uni on saturday and uhh i have to clear out my entire room in the space of 3 days can't wait if anyone wants to volunteer to take me out beforehand...my address is- 
> 
> thank u very much to my love sam who i floated this idea to and discussed with because i was like...how selfindulgent can i get...but frankly i think this fic is ridiculous enough already i can do what i like at this point. also thank u very much to my love meg for always giving me the loveliest stream of consciousness feedback on every chapter including anger whenever feet or shoes are mentioned got a few comments about people putting their shoes on the bed last chapter which was very exciting <3 also thank u to my little mysterious friend who i adore w my whole heart 
> 
> also i need everyone to know that noels first meeting with paul weller went as such: According to legend, the first thing that Noel Gallagher ever said to Paul Weller was: 'Piss off!' 'That's right, isn't it, Paul?' says Noel, pulling up a swivel chair and lounging on it. 'You were helping yourself to our rider at Glastonbury, and I wasn't having any of it.' this is the kind of content i expect and love from noely g

Calum can’t think of anything but the little package burning a hole in his pocket for the rest of the evening. 

He gets a little tipsy, and Liam gets pleasantly drunk, and by the time Luke’s offering to shout a round  _ (Luke’s _ offering to shout a round), maybe six or seven pints in, Liam’s deep in conversation with Ashton about something or other - possibly the Bhagavad Gita and the Maharishi, given that Calum keeps hearing Ashton say  _ Brahmavidya _ and Liam say  _ Lennon,  _ although really, any conversation with Liam tends to go that way. It’s only when Michael gets up to help Luke carry all the drinks back from the bar that Calum has time to sit back and step outside of himself, see the scene from a bird’s-eye view. Luke, the boy Calum had accidentally befriended and almost ruined his friendship with Michael over, stood up at the bar with Michael, Calum’s childhood best friend and first love and God knows what the fuck else, famous singer in one of the biggest bands in Britain today, and Ashton, the friend Calum had always felt safest with in Australia, the one he’d always been able to confide in, deep in conversation with Liam, Calum’s best and fiercest friend, the one who’d got him his career, all in a fucking pub at the end of his road in Manchester. It almost hurts his head to think about, like when Ashton used to say  _ the universe is infinite, y’know. Try and imagine that. Infinity.  _ It sort of feels like that now, actually. Luke and Michael, Ashton and Luke, Ashton and Liam, Calum and the rest of them. It sort of feels like infinity, like something that his mind simply isn’t equipped to process, something so vast and endless and yet intricately tangled together that it somehow makes no sense and yet all the sense in the world. Of course he’s here, with Liam, in their pub in Manchester, and of course Ashton and Luke are together, and of course Ashton and Liam are getting on, and of course Luke and Michael are laughing together at the bar, and of course Michael’s catching Calum’s eye across the room and grinning, glassy eyes sparkling a little. But why are Ashton and Liam even acquainted, and how are Ashton and Luke in his and Liam’s local boozer, and why the fuck is Michael in fucking Blur, and why is he in this pub, and why do none of Calum’s thoughts ever stray more than a few yards from Michael, like he’s caught in some kind of gravitational pull? 

It doesn’t matter, though, Calum realises, when Luke and Michael come back over with five full pints between them, midway through a conversation that must have started at the bar as they sit back down and shove drinks towards the right people. It doesn’t matter, because it’s just the way it is. It makes sense, and it doesn’t make sense, but Calum never managed to wrap his mind around the concept of infinity, so he’s not going to bother trying to understand this either. _What good’s it going to do to get all worked up about it?_ Liam would say, shrugging. _Nowt you can do, is there?_ So Calum just lets the booze warm him from the inside out, lets the pub warm him from the outside in, and listens as Luke tells him stories about places he’s visited, laughs at Ashton’s stupid jokes that could conceivably have been cracked by Calum’s dad, grins at Liam as he starts gesticulating wildly while telling a tale about a hotel bar he’d smashed up, and tries his best to avoid glancing at Michael just to see if he’s looking back. None of it stops him feeling the little package in his pocket like a heavy weight against his thigh, though, even though it can’t be more than a few grams.

They stay past last orders, and Calum’s starting to wonder whether Liam’s going to get shirty about getting thrown out at eleven again, but at around half-ten he stands up abruptly, seemingly having decided he’s simply had enough now, and says: “Right, well, I’m off. Nice meeting youse two.” He nods at Luke, who nods back with slightly narrowed eyes, and then grins at Ashton, who smiles back, a little hesitantly. He completely ignores Michael, which is probably the best Calum could have wished for, just turns to Calum and raises an eyebrow.

“Coming?” he says, and Calum blinks at him for a moment before stumbling to his feet. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Uh. It was really lovely to see you again.” 

“Yeah,” Ashton says warmly, smiling at him. “Well, you’ve got our number now, right?” Calum nods, patting the pocket that hasn’t got Michael’s present in; Luke had scribbled it down on a napkin Liam had nicked off the next table when they hadn’t been looking, and Calum had written his own down, trying his best not to rip it with his clumsy, drunken hands. 

“I’m sure you can afford international calls now,” Luke remarks. 

“Don’t you think about making any reverse charge calls,” Calum warns, and Luke grins, but there’s a little glint in his eye that tells Calum he’s absolutely going to be getting some in the next few months. Fucking hell. Noel’d better not be lying about the  _ fucking tunes, I’m telling you, fucking tunes _ he’s got up his sleeve for their next album. 

“Have a good journey home,” Calum says, as Liam gives them all a curt nod, a wide smile, and then turns sharply on his heel and walks away without another word. 

“Will do,” Ashton says, and Calum offers both him and Luke quick smiles, and then hesitates when he turns to Michael. 

“I’ll speak to you soon,” he says, all-too-aware that Luke and Ashton are still there. 

“I’m sure you will,” Michael says, all smiles and twinkling eyes, even though Calum’s essentially just ignored him for an entire evening. “Pretty fucking irresistable, me.” Calum has to bite his cheek to suppress a smile, and rolls his eyes. 

“Might not, now,” he says. Michael’s grin just widens, and he raises his eyebrows. 

“We’ll see,” he says, and Calum feels his heart jump, light and heavy at the same time. “Go on, get going. Liam might get lost on his way to the door.” Calum can’t help but snort at that, but just throws him one final smile and shake of his head before jogging off in Liam’s wake, finding him beelining for the bar again instead of heading for the exit. 

“You’ve had enough,” Calum says, grabbing Liam by the forearm and yanking him in the direction of the door, and Liam grumbles and calls him a boring cunt and a tosser and maybe even a wanker, but he lets himself be pulled, shivering when they get into the cool January air. 

“Fucking hell, it’s cold, innit?” he says, blowing on his hands before shoving them in his pockets and jumping up and down on the spot. 

“It’s January,” Calum says, starting off down the road. Liam makes a noise of exasperation and jogs to catch up with him, still bouncing up and down as he strides alongside Calum. 

“They’re alright,” he says conversationally, and Calum finds himself grinning giddily at the fact that Liam’s approving of his old friends. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“That Luke’s an odd one, though,” Liam continues, almost like he’s musing aloud. 

“Always has been,” Calum says. “Michael used to hate him. Almost ended my friendship with him when I befriended Luke.” Liam hums thoughtfully, and they lapse into silence for a moment, only broken when they turn the corner into Calum’s street and Liam says, tone unreadable:

“When’d you speak to Michael?” Calum’s blood runs cold. 

“What?” Feign ignorance and let Liam show his hand first, Calum thinks, heart racing. Let Liam show his hand, and then Calum will pick an appropriate card to play.

“When we were at the NME awards,” Liam says. “You said Michael mentioned Luke was a pilot, and Ashton was a teacher. When’d you speak to him?” 

Oh, fuck.

“Uh,” Calum says, and swallows. Denial’s out of the question, then. Maybe a half-truth will do. “Glastonbury.” 

“Where?” 

“Queueing for the loo. When you and Noel were in there taking drugs.” Liam’s silent for a moment, and Calum chances a look at him, but can’t see anything in the darkness. Fucking Manchester City Council need to fix their fucking streetlights; how are people meant to have potentially career-and-friendship-ending conversations like this?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because you would’ve kicked off.” 

“No I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, you would.” There’s a pause. 

“Alright, and what?” Liam says, a touch defensive. “You’d’ve fucking deserved it.” 

“I can’t help who I bump into outside the loos, can I?” Calum says, equally as defensive. It’s not like he’d been  _ looking _ to talk to Michael at Glastonbury, is it? 

“Can help talking to them, though.” 

“I was off my fucking head,” Calum says. “Sat on the floor trying not to throw up.” It’s not a  _ real _ lie if he just...omits part of the truth, right? 

“Should’ve thrown up on him,” Liam says savagely, and he sounds so sincere that Calum can’t help the laugh that’s punched out of him by the words as they pass under a dimly flickering streetlight. Liam throws him a furious glare, that well-known fire and desire to destroy everything that’s permanently swimming around the edge of his irises lit up in the orange light, and it makes the guilt shock Calum for a moment, sharpen his mind and remind him  _ you’re lying to him, you’re lying to your best friend, when all he’s ever asked is for you to be honest.  _

“C’mon,” Calum says hastily, before Liam has a chance to get a word in edgeways. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, alright? I just- just didn’t want you to kick off over nothing.” Half-truth number three. It  _ was _ nothing, at the time, so he’s not  _ lying, _ but the guilt settling happily in his stomach and stretching out like a cat in the warm rays of his dishonesty reminds him that he’s not telling the truth either. 

“Not kicking off now, am I?” Liam says, as they pass into darkness again. “Dead fucking reasonable, me.” Calum sends him a sidelong glance, but Liam seems to be entirely serious about it, staring steadfastly ahead of him with a furrowed brow. 

“Well, even so,” Calum says, with an uncomfortable shrug. “Probably would’ve told Noel, and all, and _he_ would’ve kicked off.” He’s expecting a quick _fuck off, not telling our kid shit, he can get fucked just as much as you,_ but instead, Liam’s unsettlingly silent for a moment. 

“Noel’s got his own reasons for that,” he says eventually, in an oddly cryptic tone that makes Calum frown. Liam doesn’t  _ do _ cryptic. He doesn’t  _ do  _ secrets, doesn’t keep his own and forgets everyone else’s. That’s fucking weird. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“Not for me to say.” Right. That’s  _ dead _ fucking weird. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“What the fuck d’you think I mean?” Liam says, sharp and impatient, and then he stops, rounds on Calum, and Calum realises they’re at his house already. “You should’ve told me.”  _ I should’ve told you a lot of things, _ Calum thinks, a little bitterly. 

“I know.” Calum swallows. “But-”

“I won’t tell Noel,” Liam says, like he knows what Calum’s about to ask, “but I’m doing it for him, not for you.” Calum frowns. 

“What the fuck are you on about?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam says, waving a hand dismissively, and then brightens a little. “Anyway, see? I’m dead fucking calm, me. Not kicking off at all.” He sounds so pleased with himself, like the fact he’s managed to have a rational conversation for all of three minutes is something to be celebrated, and then Calum realises it  _ is _ something to be celebrated, so he grins, and holds his arms open for Liam to step into. 

“You cocker,” Liam says, but he grins back, and wraps his arms around Calum, pulling him in for a tight hug. He smells like the pub, and like his cheap shampoo and conditioner, and Calum’s grin falters as he presses his face into Liam’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of home and familiarity and  _ guilt guilt guilt. _

“Fancy getting high tomorrow?” Liam says blithely, completely unaware of the fact that Calum’s just lied his way through a conversation with him. Or, no, half-truthed his way through it; he hasn’t  _ lied, _ per se. He wouldn’t  _ lie _ to Liam. Noel, yeah, but not to Liam.

“Only if you’re not going to demand I pay for every toke I take,” Calum says, and Liam laughs as he steps back. 

“Nah,” he says, grinning. “Just gonna make you pay me back for the whole thing.” Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning too, offering Liam a two-fingered salute as he makes his way up the path to his house. “And charge you double,” Liam calls as Calum gets to his front door, and Calum lifts his other hand up, flipping him off too for good measure. Liam just laughs again, blows him a kiss, and then skips happily off down the road in the direction of his own house. 

Fucking hell, Calum thinks, slamming the front door shut behind him and tipping his head back against it. That was a close fucking call, and his stomach is still churning to prove it. He’s got to be more careful, if he’s going to keep Michael as some kind of Romeo, or maybe Juliet - Calum doesn’t know which he’d rather be. 

But- fuck, Michael. The present. Shit.

He makes it to his room but barely gets the door shut before he’s pulling the present Michael gave him out of his pocket, fingers fumbling with the wrapping paper and trying to find a gap in the sellotape - Jesus Christ, is Michael trying for a potential backup career in creating watertight containers? He’s trying to be gentle, because he doesn’t know what’s in there and it feels very light, but he loses patience quickly and simply yanks at the wrapping paper with both hands, successfully tearing it but also sending whatever was inside flying under his bed. 

“Shit,” he mutters, and tosses the wrapping paper onto the bed, dropping to his knees and squinting to try and see a small, unfamiliar object that might have been whatever shot out of the package. Fuck, it’s disgusting under there - his hand comes into contact with more suspicious-feeling things than he’d like - but eventually he spots a tiny sliver of pink that he’s fairly sure doesn’t belong to him, and scrabbles around until his fingers close around it. It’s cool and hard, really fucking small, feels oddly familiar in his hands - it’s a plectrum, Calum’s sure of it before he even gets his hand free again. And it is, a little pink plectrum emblazoned _Mike Clifford_ that stares back at him almost defiantly, bright and unambiguous. It makes Calum’s stomach sink a little, even while it flips, because he’s not entirely sure how to interpret this. Michael’s not _Mike,_ not to him, and the insinuation is- well. He’s not sure what it is, but he doesn’t like it. But then again, he thinks, as he dusts his hand off and sits down heavily on the bed, Michael’s given him a plectrum, and one that says his name on it, so that’s got to mean _something,_ right? Even if he’s not quite sure what that _something_ is. 

It does, however, become a little clearer when he flips the plectrum around and sees something scratched into the back. He frowns, squints again, holds it up to the light - fuck, maybe he should get his eyes checked \- and tilts it so the light isn’t just shining through it. 

_ Michael x  _

It’s jagged and uneven, like it’s been etched in with a needle, or something, but Calum finds he doesn’t care, and nor does his heart, skipping a beat every time his eyes slide over the kiss at the end again. Michael. Not Mike.  _ Michael.  _

He shifts, trying to get it into a slightly better light just to really drink it in, and hears a little crunching sound - he’s sat on the wrapping paper. He pulls it out from underneath him, about to toss it into the bin - with force, because fuck all that sellotape - when he spots the corner of what looks like a piece of lined paper sticking out. He frowns again and pulls it out, finding a small square of paper that looks like it’s been hastily ripped out of a notepad, and unfolds it and turns it the right way round to read: 

_ Wanted something you could take with you but small enough to hide from your insane bandmates. Sorry I couldn’t get one with Michael on for you. Hope this’ll do. Happy birthday.  _

_ Michael  _

There’s no kiss on the letter, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s signed it  _ Michael,  _ and that’ll do for Calum. It’s some kind of acknowledgement that he’s  _ not _ all Mike, even though that’s what he is to everyone else, that he’s still Michael for Calum, at least, and that means that he’s  _ Calum’s _ Michael. 

Calum lifts the plectrum up into the light again, just to see the proof of it. 

_ Michael x _

\-------

They’re back on tour again a few days later, lugging their stuff to Heathrow and listening to Liam and Noel bicker about where they should get lunch as they sit on their suitcases waiting for their delayed flight to get in, exhausted before they’ve even set off. They’re set to play in the States until the end of March, with a few dates in Canada thrown into the mix too, and they’re warned that it _had_ _better not end up like last time, don’t know what you’re nodding so pointedly at Liam for, Noel, I was fucking talking to you._

They’re so busy for the first week that Calum doesn’t get a chance to rest, night after night spent on a cramped tour bus playing more and more ludicrous drinking games to try and while away the time on long, bland stretches of motorway. It doesn’t really matter, though, because Noel and Liam are getting on, all cackles and laughs and grins and offering to share the coke one of them had scored in another anonymous American city, which means that the rest of them can breathe a sigh of relief and just enjoy the fucking whirlwind that is the Gallaghers. 

Calum takes the plectrum with him. It stays in his pocket, transferred from one pair of jeans to the next, partially because he knows just how incriminating it’d be to be caught with a plectrum that says  _ Michael x _ on it, and partially because it makes him feel grounded and yet light, puts a spring in his step whenever he remembers that it’s there and what it means. 

He only manages to make a quick phone call to Michael after about a week and a half, when they have an odd hotel night, some city in Texas that isn’t Houston so he immediately forgets the name of. He’s not really expecting Michael to pick up, since it’s three in the morning in London, but he does after three rings, sounding far too awake.

“Hello?” 

“Hey,” Calum says, and there’s a shuffling sound at the other end of the line. 

“Oh, it’s the international rockstar,” Michael says, like he isn’t one himself, but Calum can hear the smile in his tone. “How’s the tour? You’re in the States, right?”

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Going alright, actually, despite having to be over here.” Michael snorts. 

“How is it?”

“Oh, y’know,” Calum says, shrugging, even though Michael can’t see him. “Big. Bland. Racist.” Michael laughs. 

“I was about to say I wouldn’t trade places with you for the world, but we’re in the studio at the moment, and Damon’s driving me up the fucking wall,” he says. “Makes me miss those suspicious burgers you get at diners in the middle of nowhere, y’know the ones? Could do with a bit of food poisoning right about now.” Calum grins. 

“Oh, yeah, how’s the Ken Livingstone feature going?” he asks, and Michael laughs again. 

“Fucking fine, you cheeky cunt,” he says. 

“Is he going to be coming up to collect his NME award for it with you next year, then?” 

“Oh, get fucked,” Michael says, but Calum can hear he’s grinning. “So? Don’t leave me in suspense. Did you like your birthday present?” Calum swallows. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I- uh. Thanks.” Michael laughs. 

“No need to be so appreciative,” he says. 

“No, I mean,” Calum says hurriedly, “I really did. I- um.” He swallows. “I’ve got it with me.” There’s a pause, and for a moment Calum thinks _ fuck, maybe that was too much, too soon, too far,  _ and then Michael says, sounding a little strange:

“You do?”

“Yeah.” 

“Oh.” Another brief pause, and then: “I didn’t think you would.” 

“Would what?”

“Y’know, I don’t know. Take it with you.  _ Want _ to take it with you.” 

“Well,” Calum says, a little weakly. “I did.” Michael huffs out a laugh, but it’s soft, gentle. 

“Yeah,” he says, sounding a little awed, like he really can’t believe it. “Hope none of your bandmates go rooting through your suitcase for drugs.” 

“What? Oh,” Calum says, and he feels a flush rising to his cheeks and thinks _thank fuck Michael’s not here._ God, he’s like a fucking teenager again, all blushes and racing-heart and butterflies-in-stomach. “Uh. I keep it in my jeans, actually.” 

“Really?” Michael says, sounding surprised. “Don’t you wash them?”

“I- yeah, ‘course I fucking wash them, I just- I move it into whatever pair I’m wearing.” God, it sounds so fucking ridiculous to say out loud, sounds even worse than Calum feels when he’s picking the plectrum out of one pocket and transferring it into another, but none of it matters when Michael exhales heavily and says: 

“Good.” Good?

“Good?” 

“Yeah.” Michael doesn’t seem to want to elaborate, and Calum doesn’t want to push, doesn’t want to rock the boat, so he just presses his lips together and leans back on the bed. 

“I’ll get you a belated birthday present to make up for it,” he says, trying for lighthearted. “An ‘I heart Texas’ t-shirt, maybe.” It works, because Michael snorts, and Calum has to try not to let out an audible sigh of relief. 

“Give me an Oasis shirt,” he says. 

“What?” Calum says, feigning indignance. “D’you know how much of a cut we get of our merch? I can’t be giving that away for free.” 

“Oh, you rockstars, you’re all the fucking same,” Michael laments. “A whiff of money and you’re like a shark to blood.” 

“D’you know how much I’m paying for this call?” Calum says. “I’ll need you to buy four t-shirts to make up for it.” 

“Only four?” Michael says, and Calum can imagine him sat at home, on his weird overstuffed armchair, smile on his lips, eyebrows raised. “Very reasonably priced merch, that.” 

“Men of the people, we are,” Calum says, his own smile playing at his lips. “None of that Siddhartha nonsense here.”

“I should never have fucking told you that,” Michael says ruefully, and Calum laughs. 

“No,” he agrees, “but I’m fucking glad you did.”

“That’s one good thing about Liam not knowing about us,” Michael says. “Can’t imagine the shit I’d get for that if he did. Think he’d break his sudden vow of silence for that, wouldn't he?" Calum frowns.

“What vow of silence?” he asks, more out of desperation than anything else. Christ; if Calum could get Liam to take any fucking vow of silence, he’d regain a lot of lost years of his life. 

“Well, y’know,” Michael says. “In the pub. He was just point blank ignoring me.” Oh. 

“Oh,” Calum says, a little awkwardly. “Well. Uh. That was for me, actually.” There’s a pause. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“I asked him not to make a scene.” There’s another pause, longer this time. 

“Huh,” Michael says, sounding surprised. “That’s- that’s oddly sweet.” 

“He’s like that,” Calum says, chest swelling with an odd sort of pride. He’s not sure whether it’s because of Liam, or because Michael’s saying something nice about Liam, but he tries not to think about it too hard, because if it’s the latter, it’ll mean he has to think about  _ why _ Michael’s opinion of Liam matters to him. 

“It’s a shame he’s so- y’know,” Michael says, and he sounds like he’s stretching, or maybe stifling a yawn. “I think I’d like him, otherwise.”

“Yeah,” Calum says. “You would.” 

“He’s a funny fucker,” Michael admits, and Calum can’t help but smile. 

“He is,” he agrees. “When he’s not trying to beat the fuck out of his brother, at least.” Michael laughs. 

“C’mon, they can’t be  _ that _ bad,” he says. “I mean, I read the stories, but really? Alex reckons they’re just trying to play up to a certain image, be relatable and business-savvy, market themselves to a certain demographic.” Calum snorts. 

“They really are that bad,” he says. “D’you really think Liam and Noel care about being ‘business-savvy’? Noel left the fucking band just as we were making our breakthrough.” 

“True,” Michael concedes. He hesitates for a moment, and then asks: “Do they  _ really _ fight like that?” 

“Like what?”

“Y’know, beating each other up.” Calum huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, amused. “And they don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire, either.”

“Jesus,” Michael says, sounding somewhere between disapproving and impressed. “Well, try not to get your pretty face caught up in it.”

“I don- uh, what?” Calum says intelligently, Michael’s words sinking in after his tongue has already started to formulate its response, before hastily continuing: “I mean. I don’t. I just let them at each other.” Michael snorts. 

“Sounds like a great dynamic to build a career around,” he says, but there’s no heat behind his words. 

“Were you not there at the NME awards?” Calum says. “I believe it was three-and-a-half we took home.” 

“I mean, we took home five, but who’s counting?” Michael says, and Calum can hear he’s grinning. 

“We only released our debut album six months ago, though,” Calum points out. 

“Guess we’ll have to wait for the BRITs, then, won’t we?” Michael says, a little amused, a little challenging. It shouldn’t make Calum feel as heady as it does, but he’s sort of past caring now, clutching the receiver closer to his ear like it’s going to bring Michael closer to him too. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Guess we will.” 

\-------

The BRIT awards are towards the end of February, halfway through the American leg of the tour, and despite flying in from California a whole day before the ceremony they’re all still jet-lagged by the time it rolls around, meaning Liam declares a healthy dose of Columbian marching powder is in order for the lot of them, and by the lot of them he means Calum and himself, because Calum had given him the money to score earlier that day, the rest of you miserly cunts can get fucked,  _ oi, _ fuck off Bonehead, give it  _ back, _ you fucking cunt- 

It does help, though, perks them all right up so they’re in an almost hysterical, excitable mood by the time the lights go down and the performances begin. 

_ “Madonna’s _ here,” Liam stage-whispers to Calum, when Elton John gets on stage, like fucking  _ Elton John _ isn’t on stage. 

“Eeyar, there’s Paul Weller!” Noel says, as Paul Weller shuffles into the room, like Elton John isn’t currently trying to sing. “Weller! Weller, you fucker, get over here!”

“He’s got his own fucking table, you prick,” Bonehead says, and Noel spares the time to shoot him a glare before waving Paul Weller over. He spots Noel in the crowd and grins, beelining for the Oasis table, and Calum finds Noel shoving himself up against Calum in order to make room between himself and Liam for Weller. 

“What are you lot doing here?” Weller asks, when he gets to the table, pulling up a spare chair from the Take That table behind them without bothering to ask if he can have it. “This is a respectable ceremony, y’know.” 

“Oh, piss off,” Noel says. “What the fuck are  _ you _ nominated for?” 

“Best Solo Artist, I believe,” Weller says, looking incredibly smug. 

“That it?” Noel says, sounding faux-unimpressed. “We’re up for four.” 

“Ah, well, I’ve got to leave some for the rest of you, don’t I?” Weller says, and then Liam shushes him angrily, because Madonna’s just got up on stage. Fucking hell, Calum thinks, exchanging a look with Noel, who’s pressed uncomfortably close against him, the entire right side of his body against the entire left side of Calum’s. He’s oddly warm, actually, maybe a side effect of the coke and what of the champagne on the table he’s already managed to get down himself, and there’s definitely enough room on his left for him to edge away from Calum a little, give the both of them a bit more breathing room, but he doesn’t. He stays like that, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with Calum, warmth seeping through his thin shirt to Calum’s skin. It’s not unpleasant, actually, Calum thinks, because it’s pretty cold in the room, fucking draughty old Ally Pally. Yeah, he can go for a bit of this, stealing Noel’s body heat, even if it’ll only leave the right hand side of him feeling colder than ever. It’s not like Noel ever lets Calum close, anyway, not since- well. Calum doesn’t need to think about that now. 

He’s so preoccupied with his thoughts that he barely realises that Madonna’s being cheered off the stage (largely by Liam) and another award is being presented - Producer of the Year, he vaguely registers - until that’s over too, and the lights are going down, and a performance by Blur is being announced. 

“Oh, not this shite again,” Liam says derisively, as the first notes of Girls & Boys start up. “Fuck this, I’m off to do a line. Anyone want? Cal?” 

“Nah,” Calum says, shaking his head, trying not to let his eyes flit back to the stage and find their way to Michael, because Liam’ll see. “Still buzzed, mate.” 

“I’ll have some,” Bonehead says, and Liam throws him a glare. 

“Do one,” he says curtly, and scrapes his chair back loudly. “No one nick my fucking chamapgne, yeah?” With that, he’s off, leaving Calum free to glance up at Blur, eyes automatically drawn to stage right where he knows Michael will be standing. He can’t look for long, too aware of Noel next to him from the warmth of his bicep against Calum’s, but he can look long enough to see that Michael looks  _ fucking gorgeous. _ His hair is all fluffed up, the light hitting it from behind making him look oddly angelic, and he’s got an oversized shirt on, dark blue with a green stripe across it, and the sleeves are falling a little too far over his hands, covering everything but his fingers. When he looks up, too far away for Calum to see the colour of his eyes, he looks directly at Calum, like he’d already spotted the Oasis table a while ago and knew exactly where to look. He doesn’t do anything, though, just looks at Calum briefly and then looks away again, and for a moment Calum’s heart is in his mouth, thinking  _ what have I done, what have I done, _ and then he hears a contemptuous noise from his left, and realises. Michael had seen that Noel was watching, too, and didn’t want to give Calum away. 

“How’ve they won fucking Album of the Year?” Noel grumbles, and downs the rest of his champagne like it’s a fucking lager. “Definitely Maybe’s way better than this shit.” 

“We’ve got a fucking song about lasagne on our album,” Calum points out. 

“Yeah, and the fact that it’s better than this speaks fucking volumes, doesn’t it?” Noel shoots back, and Calum can’t help but snort. “Aren’t they doing another album this year?” Calum’s heart skips a beat. Has Liam told Noel about him and Michael having a conversation at Glastonbury?

“What’re you asking me for?” He sounds too defensive and he knows it. It’s not Liam he’s talking to, who won’t pick up on these things, who’ll barrel through them and breeze over them, but Noel, who hears every tiny intonation and stores it for future reference. 

“Who said I was asking?” Noel says, a little too lightly. “Ever heard of rhetorical questions?” Calum shakes his head. 

“Never got an English GCSE, mate,” he says, and Noel grins. 

“Asking an Australian to speak English is a bit of a push,” he agrees, and Calum rolls his eyes and shoves at Noel, who just laughs and lets himself be shoved. 

Blur’s performance is over by the time Liam gets back from the loo, and Calum almost wishes they’d picked a longer song because Noel keeps him distracted throughout the rest of it, and then immediately seems to lose interest and turns to Weller instead, engaging him in a riveting conversation about guitars. It does give Calum a brief moment, though, as Liam’s settling back into his seat and deciding what conversation he wants to barge in on and while Noel’s frowning at something Weller’s saying, to glance up at the stage, where Blur are currently unplugging their instruments and heading off. Michael’s fiddling with his guitar, not looking at it, eyes already on Calum like he’s waiting for him to look, and he grins, big and bright, when he catches Calum’s eye. 

Calum looks around him briefly - no one’s looking, really; Liam’s decided Tony and Alan’s conversation is the one to go for, and Noel’s got his back to Calum - before looking back up at Michael, smiling, and giving him the quickest thumbs-up mankind has ever seen. It’s stupid, and for a brief moment Calum feels almost foolish, but then he sees Michael’s grin widen, and suddenly he doesn’t care anymore. 

And he  _ definitely _ doesn’t care when Michael scans his table too, makes sure no one’s looking at him, and then winks at him, just like he had at the NME awards, only this time it’s not because he’s won an award that Oasis were up for too, or because he’s won one more award than Calum. This time, it’s just because he wants to. 

Fuck.

\-------

Oasis only end up taking home the one award - British Breakthrough Act, which Noel and Liam are happy enough with - and Blur scoop up  _ four, _ which Noel and Liam are absolutely irate about. Paul Weller wins his one award, which Noel pretends to be furious about, but Calum sees the pride in his eyes as he says _you prick, you go and give that award to Morrissey right fucking now._

Calum stays at Liam’s that night, because his parents have informed him that yes, the flat is all ready for him to move into, but they want to be there and present him with his keys, as though they’d bought him the flat, or something. It’s a sweet gesture, though, almost like a rite of passage, and they  _ have _ taken care of getting it all sorted and furnished while he’s been in the States, so he agrees to stay at Liam’s and meet them in the morning for the ceremonial handing over of his adulthood and independence. 

‘The morning’, however, is a fucking mistake, because of course they go to not one but two afterparties, and Liam brings not one but two girls home, and Calum takes not one but two different types of drugs, so by the time morning rolls around, he’s not awake, he’s  _ still _ awake. And it’s fairly fucking obvious, by the disapproving look on his mum’s face and the amused-but-trying-to-hide-it look on his dad’s, but it doesn’t matter, because he takes them out for lunch to the Italian place he’d gone to with Michael, and he nods along and tries not to sway on the spot when they tell him about home insurance and what to do in case of a flood (a  _ flood, _ really), and they seem to be placated by that, both of them beaming and trying not to look too wobbly as they hand him his keys, say  _ well, that’s it then.  _ It is it, and it feels hollow and yet colourful and exciting, and Calum can’t stop himself from crying a little when he says goodbye to them at the station, because this is home now. They aren’t home anymore, and neither is Manchester; this, him, London, this is home. 

It feels even worse when he gets back, when he shuts the front door and hears it echo in the sparsely-furnished flat, so he immediately turns, heads into the living room, picks up the phone, and calls Liam. He doesn’t say anything besides  _ hey, d’you wanna come look at my new place? _ but Liam gets it, because he says  _ your bed better not be a single, mate,  _ and he’s there within fifteen minutes. He stays all day, crashes with him at around five and sleeps all the way through ‘til ten the next morning, then goes with him to Sainsbury’s, helps him unpack the groceries, and sits swinging his legs off the kitchen counter as he rambles about nothing in particular while Calum makes the two of them one of the only meals he can cook - scrambled eggs. He goes home in the evening, but leaves with a  _ call me, yeah? _ with a silent  _ if you need me _ tacked on the end that he doesn’t say but Calum hears, and then Calum’s left alone in his flat again, only this time the remote control’s still tossed onto the coffee table where Liam had left it, and the sheets on Calum’s bed are still a little rumpled on the side Liam had slept on, and it all feels a lot less overwhelming than before. 

Then, just as Calum’s starting to feel a little more settled in his own flat - Jesus, he owns a flat - he’s got to pack up and head first to Wales for a recording session of a new song Noel’s written - Some Might Say - and then back off to America again. 

The recording session is a mixed bag. The song itself is great - a great melody, but questionable lyrics, as Calum freely points out to Noel when he gets to the bit about sinks being full of fishes and dogs itching in kitchens, only to be haughtily informed that  _ who fucking cares, some music critic will find meaning in it, won’t they? Point is it’s going to make us a lot of money.  _ What should have been a great day recording, though, everyone pleased with the new song, buzzing on the high of  _ fuck, this is us, our job, our second album, and we sound fucking good,  _ is ruined by Tony. 

He just can’t get the drums down. He’s too fast, then he’s too slow, then he’s faltering, then he’s missing fills, and even Calum’s at the end of his tether by the time they  _ finally _ manage to get an acceptable take done. It’s not fucking working, he thinks, stomach sinking. They can’t record an entire album like this. Tony just doesn’t care enough, isn’t driven enough, isn’t  _ good _ enough for it to work. They need a better drummer. 

They don’t have time to worry about it, though, because the day after they finish recording they’re crossing the Atlantic again, playing a show in Vancouver before heading back to the States for a gruelling month of shows, tensions mounting and mounting as show after show Tony’s fucking up in the back, messing up the beat and forcing the rest of them to slow down or speed up or simply, on multiple occasions, stop playing entirely, turn around and yell  _ what the fuck, Tony, do your fucking job. _ It doesn’t do the relationships within the rest of the band any favours, either, which is only worsened when they get back to Europe for the Some Might Say video shoot, for which Creation have forked out forty grand and booked a two-day shoot which Liam refuses to turn up for for some inexplicable reason, leading to a blazing row with Noel and even a spat with Calum, who’s at his fucking wit’s end with the lot of them. The shoot ends up getting cancelled, and Noel and Liam don’t speak for the next two weeks, and even Calum doesn’t want to do anything but snap at Liam for a solid three days, and things are just getting worse day by day despite the phone calls they get every day informing them that  _ it’s gone double platinum, it’s outsold this and that artist in Japan.  _ In mid-April, they have a live performance on The White Room that Weller agrees to be on, and Noel only half-jokingly begs him to drum instead of Tony, and they end up having to cut Some Might Say out of the set because Tony just can’t fucking get it right. It doesn’t get any better when they film the Rock ‘n’ Roll Star video, but at least Noel and Liam are talking again by then, albeit in stilted, snappy sentences, and by the next day, with the help of weed and booze, they’re laughing and joking onstage on the set that’s being filmed for some fucking VHS or other. 

And then just as Calum thinks it’s starting to look up, they finish off the Definitely Maybe tour, which feels like it’s been going on for half of their fucking lives, and Tony fucks up at least half the songs on the setlist, but for the first time nobody says anything, which is when Calum knows it’s the end. They’ve tried, and Liam and Noel don’t have a lot of patience, and it all adds to the weird hollowness of  _ that’s it, that’s that phase of my life over  _ that Calum feels when his last note rings out, so he drowns it in as many substances as he can get his hands on. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to worry about it, so he just gets drunk and high and laughs with Noel and dances with Liam and chases after Bonehead when he tries to nick his lager, and wakes up with a pounding headache and a blank swathe of memory of the night before that he doesn’t try and prod at, doesn’t want to unravel. 

Some Might Say comes out a few days later, and a strange, patchwork video that they’ve somehow pieced together comes out with it, and then they’re back on Top of the Pops, miming along to it, as has become standard with every new single they release. Calum doesn’t even have it in him to protest the miming this time, because the atmosphere is so thick and heavy, tangibly dense and unpleasant. 

Three days later, when Calum’s body is starting to recover from the tour, from all the abuse he’s hurled at it over the past few months, when he wakes up in the morning without a dry mouth and pounding headache, he’s called to a rehearsal and thinks  _ fuck’s sake, we’ve just come off fucking tour,  _ but goes anyway. He finds Noel and Liam smoking outside, and accepts the fag Liam wordlessly holds out to him and the lighter that follows in its wake, and then raises an eyebrow when neither of them speak. 

“What?” he says. 

“I’ve fired Tony,” Noel says simply. Calum’s stomach drops. 

He’d known it was coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier to handle. Tony can’t keep up, can’t play the new songs Noel’s writing, bigger and better and grander and tighter, and they can’t have that. Everyone needs to pull their weight in the band, especially the fucking drummer, or it doesn’t work. And it’s not working, hasn’t been working for ages, but it doesn’t make it feel any less like a punch to the gut. They’ve been together for almost four years, now. Shitty drummer or not, he’s still a friend of sorts. 

“What now?” Calum says, because that’s all he can say. It’s not like he hadn’t expected it. 

“We find a new drummer,” Noel says, taking another drag of his cigarette. 

“You don’t have one lined up?” Noel shrugs. 

“Nope,” he says easily. Calum blinks at him. What?

“We’re recording in a few fucking days,” he says in disbelief. “Don’t Creation have someone? A session drummer?” 

“Yeah,” Noel says, “but he’s a cunt.”

“Who cares?” Calum says. “If we cancelled studio time for everyone involved in the process that you thought was a cunt we’d never have made a fucking record.” Noel inclines his head in Liam’s direction, and Liam grins happily, and Calum rolls his eyes at the both of them. 

“Take him,” Calum says. “Buys us time to find a new drummer.” 

“Or what?” 

“What the fuck d’you mean, or what?” Calum demands. “Or we don’t make a fucking record.” 

“I can play drums,” Noel says. 

“You’re not half as good as Tony, and he wasn’t half good enough to play the songs,” Liam points out, and Noel shoots him a glare, like Liam’s supposed to be on his side, or something. This is fucking ridiculous. There isn’t a fucking  _ side _ to take - this is career, or no career. 

“I don’t care if the session drummer is fucking Ted Bundy,” Calum says, jabbing his cigarette at Noel accusingly. “Fucking take him, and we’ll find a new drummer in the process.” 

“Eeyar,” a voice says from behind them, sounding tired. “Why’re we standing outside? It’s fucking freezing. And I’m hungover, so the longer I stand up, the worse it’s looking for your shoes.” Calum, Noel and Liam all turn to look at Bonehead, who frowns, seemingly realising that something’s up. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve fired Tony,” Noel tells him. 

“About time,” Bonehead says, a little contemptuously. “And? What’s that got to do with us standing out here? I’m freezing my bollocks off already.” 

“We haven’t got a replacement,” Calum informs him. 

“Eh?” Bonehead says. “There’s a million fucking session drummers out there. How’ve we not got a replacement?”

“Noel doesn’t want the one Creation put forward,” Calum says. 

“Fuck Noel,” Bonehead says, with which Calum wholeheartedly agrees. “Who died and made you king of the band, eh?” 

“Who writes all the fucking songs?” Noel counters. 

“Who plays ‘em?” Bonehead shoots back. “Far as I’m concerned, your songs’d be nowhere without us.”

“I can play ‘em myself,” Noel says evenly. 

“Can’t sing ‘em like he can, though,” Bonehead says, inclining his head in Liam’s direction. “Take the fucking drummer, and let’s fucking go inside.” Noel looks at him, like he’s weighing up his options, and then his eyes slide over to Calum, that same calculating look in his eyes, and then finally he looks at Liam, who holds his gaze. 

“You too?” Noel says, sounding disappointed, and then sighs, shakes his head, and stubs out his cigarette. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you that he’s a cunt.”

“Fine,” Calum says. “Can’t be worse than you, anyway.”

“Ha fucking ha,” Noel says, shoving two fingers up at him, and shoulders the door to the building open. “You’d all better come up with at least one suggestion for a replacement drummer each, ‘cause you fucking roped me into this.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Bonehead says, as they traipse into the building. “As if you’d leave that decision up to us, you fucking control freak.” 

“Get fucked,” Noel says, but he doesn’t really sound like he means it. “I’m serious. One suggestion each by the end of the week, or you’re all out of the band too.” 

“I don’t know any fucking drummers,” Bonehead protests, as they all file into the rehearsal space. “I provided Tony, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, second thoughts, you can fucking sit this one out,” Noel says, pointing at him, and Bonehead makes a noise of exasperation and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t complain beyond that. Calum can’t really blame him; who the fuck does he know that’s a drummer? 

“I don’t either,” he says. “Only fucking lived in the UK fi- uh, six years, haven’t I?” 

“We’re not the only people you’ve met in your six years here, though, are we?” Bonehead says. 

“No, but I haven’t met any drummers that aren’t already in bands,” Calum says. “Unless you fancy me asking Andy Henderson to join.” 

“Eeyar, what about your mate?” Liam says suddenly. “Ashton?” 

“He’s in Australia,” Calum says. “And he’s a teacher, not a drummer.”

“Well, Mike said he drums, didn’t he? In about thirty bands, wasn’t it?” 

“He’s in Australia,” Calum repeats. 

“Is he a cunt?” Noel asks, and Calum opens his mouth to respond before he realises Noel’s asking Liam, like he doesn’t trust Calum’s judgement. 

“No,” Liam says. “Bit weird, though.” 

“Can you ask him?” Noel’s directing that at Calum, who just stares at him in disbelief. 

“What the fuck about ‘he’s in Australia’ and ‘he’s a teacher, not a drummer’ are you not understanding?” he says incredulously. “He’s in  _ fucking Australia. _ And we  _ don’t talk.” _

“Is he incapable of getting on a plane?” Noel fires back. “And you saw him a few weeks ago. Ring him and ask.” Calum blinks at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. 

“Fine,” he says, because Noel’s got the meanest stubborn streak he’s ever seen, and Calum can’t be bothered to argue. “But you’d better keep looking, because he’s in  _ fucking Australia _ and he’s a  _ teacher, not a drummer.” _

“Fine,” Noel says, with a shrug, and heads over to his guitar. “And don’t think you’re off the hook, our kid, you’ve got to find one too.” Liam makes a noise of outrage. 

“Hang on a minute, I just suggested Calum’s mate,” he says indignantly. 

“Still Calum’s mate, though,” Noel says. “He’s the one that’s going to call, isn’t he?” 

“I’ve spoken to him  _ once _ in the past six years,” Calum points out. 

_ “I’ll  _ fucking call the bastard,” Liam says. “I fucking suggested him.”

“You know more people,” Noel says. 

_ “You _ know more people,” Liam throws back. “You were a fucking roadie for years before joining a band.  _ You _ find us a new drummer.” Noel rounds on Liam with an annoyed expression on his face, and Calum takes that as his cue to tune out, to turn to Bonehead and throw him a  _ can you fucking believe this _ look that Bonehead returns with the added bonus of a shrug. 

Jesus Christ, Calum thinks, twisting his tuning pegs with more force than strictly necessary, definitely sharpening his A string. His life is a fucking comedy, sometimes. Or maybe a tragedy. Or maybe both. 

(He should have paid more attention in English.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello...three months later...here i am with a new chapter 
> 
> i've actually had this about 95% written for ages i just couldn't find the time to sit down and write the final bit but i have now and here we are! i can't promise the updates to this will be regular at all because i am truly very busy but i CAN promise that i will finish it i am determined this fic is truly my passion project (if no one could tell) and i am genuinely still, after i think what is now 100k words, enjoying writing it which is highly unusual for me since i usually get bored after about 3k also we are still building up to the main event if you can believe it how hilarious that i hate slow burn fics and yet here i am, 100k in, nary a kiss to be had yet.........i am truly the worlds biggest hypocrite 
> 
> this chapter...dont wanna be spoiling it but perhaps we are finally getting somewhere. perhaps calum is going to be moved off the naughty step in my mind. also this chapter is dedicated wholly to spoiler twin who has spent the past few weeks diligently leaving the kindest sweetest loveliest comments on this fic that i may or may not reread every single day bc they make me so happy yes i am deeply in love with you <3 <3 <3

Tony’s departure is announced the next day. 

Noel says he’ll take care of it, which Calum vetoes, because Noel would absolutely try and put out a statement like _we’ve done the nation a favour and finally fucking fired the useless cunt,_ which would probably get them sued, so the label puts out a suitably vague and impersonal statement that doesn’t contain a single expletive, much to both Gallaghers’ disappointment. Calum gets a phone call from his mum while determinedly on his way to drunk that evening asking whether it’s true, and then a sharp-toned lecture on friendship and not abandoning people who have stuck with him for years now that he’s rich and famous which takes so long that he’s polished off the rest of his bottle of whiskey by the time he’s managed to get a word in edgeways to slur _but he just wasn’t any good, mum. He was a liability._

(By the time she’s finished voicing her disapproval on that, too, he’s almost sober again.) 

“So, what happens now?” she asks, and Calum shrugs, toying with the empty bottle on his lap. 

“We find a new drummer,” he says. “I mean, we go into the studio next week, so. Don’t really have time to waste.” 

“A session drummer?” Calum hesitates. 

They’d rehearsed with the session drummer Creation had put forward that day, and Noel hadn’t been wrong - he really _is_ a cunt. And it’s not like Calum’s not used to being around twats - he’s in a band with Liam, Noel and Bonehead - but this guy is a _complete_ twat, that southern English privately-educated entitled brand of cunt that just made Calum want to throttle him every time he’d heard an inbred-sounding guffaw from the kit behind him. The only good thing had been that it had stopped Liam from digging himself a home under Noel’s skin, having a new person to direct his belligerence at, and it had been during one of his and Liam’s seven thousand arguments that day that Noel had taken Calum aside and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to call Ashton _tonight_ because it’s fucking insufferable, and if he doesn’t call then Noel will, and don’t think he won’t.

“Maybe,” he says. 

“Maybe?” his mum echoes, and Calum can almost hear her arched eyebrows, her _I’ve-really-had-enough-of-you-tonight_ expression. 

“Noel wants me to ask Ashton,” he says. There’s a pause. 

“Ashton _Irwin?”_

“Yeah.” 

“Bloody hell,” his mum says. “I didn’t know you still spoke to him.” 

“Michael brought him to the NME awards,” Calum says. “And Luke, too.” 

“Oh,” his mum says, sounding decidedly warmer at the very thought of Luke than she has done in the past hour of speaking to her own son. “How’s Luke?”

“He’s good,” Calum says. “He’s a pilot now.” 

“A pilot?” A _that’s what I said_ is right on the tip of Calum’s tongue, but he doesn’t really fancy another half hour of bollocking, so he swallows it back and settles for: 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh, well, that’s lovely, isn’t it? A pilot, Liz must be so proud. And what’s Ashton doing?”

“He’s a teacher.”

“In Sydney?”

“In Sydney.” There’s a pause. 

“Surely Noel knows people that are more easily accessible than Ashton?” his mum says, sounding a little baffled. “I mean, really, a teacher in Australia?” 

“That’s what I told him,” Calum says. “But he wants someone that can put up with him and Liam, and apparently that’s hard to come by in session musicians.” 

“Anyone can put up with them if you pay them enough,” his mum says, and Calum snorts. 

_“I_ can barely put up with them, and they’re my best friends,” he says, entirely truthfully. 

“Well, what did Ashton say?”

“I haven’t asked him yet.” 

“You’d better get a move on,” his mum says sternly. “He’ll need time to sort out leaving his job. When I was working, my notice period-”

“He’s not going to say _yes,_ mum,” Calum says, tinged with exasperation. 

“You don’t know that,” his mum says. _Yes, I do,_ Calum thinks, a little sourly. “You wouldn’t be asking him if you didn’t think there was a chance he would say yes.” 

“I’m asking him because Noel threatened to ask him if I don’t,” Calum says. His mum hums, that infuriating _I’m-not-buying-it_ hum that she manages so well. 

“You may as well ask,” she says. “Go on, it’s early morning there. Catch him before he goes to work.” Calum grits his teeth. Fucking hell. Wasn’t the whole point of moving down to London so that he could live his life without parental interference? 

“Fine,” he says, a little curtly. “Night, mum.” 

“Night, love. Tell him hi from me.” And then she’s gone.

Fuck’s sake. 

Calum sighs, gets to his feet with the phone still in hand, stretches and cracks his entire spine (twenty-three hasn’t been kind to him so far), and heads out into the kitchen. He knows he left that napkin Luke had written his and Ashton’s number on in there somewhere - was it on top of the microwave? No, must be behind the four empty bottles of rum, or maybe- yes, wedged between the Delia Smith cookbook his mum had sent down to him and the half-hearted attempt at doing his own finances he’d given up on two weeks into the tax year. He must have wedged those sheets of paper in too hard, because the napkin is crumpled and the numbers are a little faded, but Calum can still read them if he smooths it out. 

And he does, reads the numbers over and over again as his palm gets a little sweaty pressed against the warm plastic handset of the phone, until the dark grey squiggles feel like they’re conducting the orchestra of his shallow breaths and wildly beating heart. Jesus Christ. He’s never been intimidated by a napkin before, but there’s a first time for everything, he supposes. 

He heads for the fridge, pulls out a beer, opens it and takes a long, long swig from it, and then sets it down on the counter and dials the number before he can think twice. Maybe it’s too late, now, anyway. Maybe Ashton’s already on his way to work. Maybe fate will intervene in Calum’s favour, for once.

The phone rings four, five times, and Calum’s mind is racing, and he’s just thinking _thank God, they’re out, I’ve got away with it,_ when someone picks up.

“Hello?” It’s Luke. 

“Uh,” Calum says, and swallows, and then clears his throat, trying to buy himself time while he thinks over what to say next. He hadn’t thought about what to do if Luke picked up. Should he tell him straight up what he’s ringing for? Should he let Ashton tell him? He should probably let Ashton say it, right? What would Calum say - _hey, man, can you pass me over to your boyfriend? I’m going to ask him to leave you and join my band._ God, this is the fucking stupidest idea Noel’s ever had, including the time he decided to do coke in front of a policeman in France. “Hey. Is Ashton there?” Calum hesitates, and then adds: “It’s Calum.” 

“Hey, Cal,” Luke says, sounding surprised. “Yeah, he’s here.” There’s a pause, and then he says, a little cautiously: “Is everything okay?” 

“What?” Calum says. “Yeah, yeah. I just- uh. I just need to talk to Ashton.” 

“Alright,” Luke says, and then there’s a shuffling sound and Calum hears a faint _Ashton! Ash!_ and then some mumbling that he can’t understand before there’s a loud burst of feedback that makes him wince, followed by:

“Cal?” 

“Hey,” Calum says, a little uncomfortably. Fucking hell. He has no idea how to phrase this. “I- um.” 

“Are you okay?” Ashton sounds concerned, and Calum can almost see the little crease between his brows, the way his mouth is slightly downturned. He wonders if it’s got more pronounced since Ashton started working with kids. Although really, they can’t be any worse than it must have been dealing with a teenage Calum, Michael and Luke.

“Yeah,” Calum says, and then sighs, because this is fucking stupid. There’s no _point_ asking - Ashton’s a teacher, and he’s in Australia - but Noel’ll be able to tell if Calum lies about having called Ashton, and Calum would rather embarrass himself in front of Ashton than risk one of the Gallaghers calling him. “I just- this is fucking stupid, okay, but I’ve got to ask you. Band orders.” 

“What?” Ashton sounds a little wary now. Calum takes a deep breath; best to just get it over with, right? 

“D’you want to join Oasis?” 

Whatever Calum’s expecting - a pause, followed by a laugh; a scoff; a derisive snort - it’s not what he gets, which is pure silence. If it weren’t for the telltale crackle of an international phone line, Calum would think the connection had cut out. 

“What?” Ashton says again, after an incredibly excruciating thirty seconds have passed. Calum winces.

“I know, alright, I’m sorry, but Noel threatened to call you if I didn’t, and I wanted to spare you-” he starts, apologies and excuses tripping over themselves in their haste to get off his tongue, but Ashton interrupts him. 

“Are you being serious?” 

“I-” is he? He hadn’t been, really, had just been doing it to get Noel off his back and try and stop him from irreparably damaging his semi-rekindled friendship with Luke and Ashton, but Ashton hasn’t straight up said _are you taking the piss? I’m in fucking Australia, and I’m a teacher._ And it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to have Ashton in the band, would it? It might be nice to have someone halfway sensible around them. And, frankly, Calum would take Stalin over their current session drummer. “I mean. Yeah.” 

(And, a small voice in Calum’s mind says, maybe Ashton could act as some kind of a bridge between Oasis and Blur. Or, more accurately, between the Gallaghers and Michael.)

“Okay,” Ashton says slowly. “I- can I have some time to think about it?” Calum blinks. 

_What?_

“You- are _you_ being serious?”

“I- well, I’d be fucking stupid not to at least _think_ about it, wouldn’t I?” Ashton says, a little defensively. “It’s _Oasis._ ” The way he says the name, a little awed, a little stunned, a little revering, makes Calum’s stomach flip uncomfortably. Oasis don’t feel like that to him. It’s just him and his best mates fucking about and making good music. They’re not- they’re not _someone;_ at least, they shouldn’t be to Ashton, who’s known Calum since he was fourteen. He’s nothing special, and Ashton of all people should know that.

“Uh,” Calum says. “I mean. I can probably buy you a day.” 

“A day?” Ashton echoes. “I- Jesus, Cal, a _day?_ A day to think about that?” 

“Well, if you say no we have to find someone else, because our current session drummer’s a cunt, and Liam and Noel are insufferable so finding someone willing to work with them is a nightmare, and we go into the studio next week to record the next album, and we have Top of the Pops in, like, three days-”

“Jesus, okay,” Ashton says, exhaling heavily, and Calum can just imagine him raking his fingers through his hair. “Fucking hell, that’s a tight schedule. Life of a rockstar, eh?” Calum huffs out a laugh, and bites at his thumbnail. “Alright. A day. I’ll think about it.” 

“Alright,” Calum says. 

“Listen, I have to go,” Ashton says. “But I’ll call you tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” Calum agrees. “Okay.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Uh. My mum says hi, by the way.” There’s a moment’s pause, and then a bright, surprised burst of laughter. 

“Tell her hi from me,” Ashton says. “I’ll speak to you soon, yeah?” 

“Yeah. Bye, mate.” 

“Bye, Cal.” There’s a click, and then the sound of the dial tone Calum’s got to know so well.

Well, Calum thinks, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Good thing he left the beer right next to him.

\------- 

Calum’s woken up at eight in the morning the next day by a shrill ringing sound that nigh-on makes him jump out of his skin. 

He sits bolt upright in bed, immediately awake, heart hammering in his chest, mind running through about forty panicked scenarios of break-ins or being a prisoner in a high-security prison before it realises _oh, hang on, it’s just the phone._ He reaches over, fumbles for the receiver and picks it up, blinking hard as he raises it to his ear. 

“Yeah?” he rasps. There’s silence at the other end, just the static crackling back at him. “Hello?”

“Cal?” His heart lurches. It’s Ashton. And it’s not tomorrow for him yet, so that means it’s probably a no. 

“Yeah?” Another pause, only this time Calum can make out Ashton’s breathing. It hitches once, twice, like he’s about to say something and then thinks better of it, and Calum wants to fucking die, and is about to tell Ashton _just fucking say no, get it over with_ when Ashton says:

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll join.” 

Calum’s heart, which has been doing fierce battle with his ribcage, stops abruptly. 

What? 

“What?” 

“I- if you’ll have me. I’ll do it. I’ll join.” This doesn’t make any sense. 

“But- Luke, and- and your job, and-” 

“I know,” Ashton says quickly, and it sounds a little pained, like he’s already weighed up the pros and cons of all of these scenarios and is all too aware of the cons. “Luke thinks I should do it. I mean, he’s not at home half the time anyway, so.” There’s a short pause, and Calum can just imagine Ashton shrugging a little hesitantly, phone clutched to his ear. “And- yeah, the job thing, that’s- that’s a bit more of an issue, because ordinarily I’d have to work out my notice period, and relief teachers are in short supply, but I’ve spoken to my boss and we’ve sorted something out, I think. It, uh, might be contingent on getting some concert tickets, though.” He coughs delicately, and Calum blinks. 

“Right,” Calum says slowly. “I, uh. Okay.” There’s a pause.

“So, uh,” Ashton says. “Am I in?” 

“Are you- uh, yeah? I mean, I’ll double check with Noel, but- yeah, I think so?” 

“Okay,” Ashton says. He sounds a little nervous. He should be, really; it’s Oasis. And, fuck, that’s a good point actually - it’s _Oasis._ And Ashton’s not exactly got the rosiest of pasts - Calum remembers all too well who’d offered him his first ever bump of coke - but he’s a teacher now. That shit’s probably all behind him. He’s probably grown up. 

“Look,” Calum says, biting his lip. “I feel like- y’know. I should- I should warn you. There’s- it’s- there’s a lot of drink. And drugs. And sex, if you’re Liam.” 

“I figured,” Ashton says. “I’ve read the stories.” He doesn’t sound fazed at all. Maybe he doesn’t quite understand the gravity of the situation. After all, ‘a lot of drugs’ to most people is just a Tuesday afternoon for Oasis.

“And Noel and Liam-” Calum cuts himself off. How the fuck is he meant to explain the Gallaghers? That’s sort of something that has to be witnessed, something that has to be learnt, but he owes Ashton fair warning. “Oasis is built on them. The two of them together, I mean. And it’s volatile. It’s really fucking volatile. We thought we were done for good on our last American tour. So it’s not- it’s not exactly a stable career path.” 

“Well, I’m still a qualified teacher, aren’t I?” Ashton says, still not sounding at all concerned. “If one of them kills the other, I’ve got something lined up. You should worry about yourself.” Calum blinks. He has a point. 

“Okay,” he says slowly, a little nonplussed. “Well. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

“Cal,” Ashton says, a little exasperated, a little fond. “I know. I know what I’m letting myself in for. I’ve met Liam. I’m not an idiot.” Privately, Calum thinks anyone willing to join Oasis has to be an idiot on some level, but he lets it slide. 

“And Luke’s _really_ okay with it?” he says, just to make sure. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, sounding a little amused. “D’you want to ask him yourself?”

“I- no, I believe you, I just-” Calum cuts himself off. _I just remember Luke being exceptionally clingy,_ is what he wants to say, but it’s been six years since then. Things have changed. “Okay. Well. Let me- let me just make a call, and I'll call you back?"

“Sure,” Ashton says. “I’ll be here.” 

“Alright. Well.” Calum clears his throat. “Speak to you soon, then.” 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, and then Calum hangs up. 

What the fuck? 

His fingers are dialling Noel’s number before his mind has caught up with them, too preoccupied with digesting the empty wall his eyes are blankly focused on, and by the time he’s realised _maybe I should take a minute to process this_ Noel’s already picked up. 

“What?” He sounds groggy and annoyed, and Calum only belatedly realises that it’s eight in the morning. 

“I called Ashton,” he says, and there’s a shuffling sound that means Noel’s either sitting upright in bed or taking the call outside from whatever company he’s picked up. 

“And?” 

“He said he’ll do it.” 

“Great,” Noel says. “Tell him to be here by Sunday.” 

“I- Jesus, Noel, I don’t think he can move halfway around the world in a week,” Calum says, a little taken aback. 

“Why not?” Noel says. 

“Well, he’s got to get a work visa, and-”

“Creation will sort that,” Noel says impatiently. 

“Not in six fucking days, they won’t,” Calum says. “They usually don’t let you apply any earlier than three months before you move, and that’s only for the temporary work visa-”

“So tell him to come over on a tourist visa.” 

“That’s illegal.”

“So’s coke,” Noel points out. Fair point.

“It’s not like we can hide him working, though,” Calum says. 

“It’s not like we hide the coke, either,” Noel says. “Money and influence gets you places.” Calum pulls a face.

“That’s not who we are,” he says. 

“No, but it’s true, innit?” Noel says blithely. “Might as well use it if we can.” 

“Well, regardless, he’s got to pack up-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Noel says. “If he wants it to happen, he’ll make it happen. Now, I’m going back to bed, and don’t fucking call me again before ten.” He hangs up without another word, leaving Calum blinking at the beige wall opposite him. 

Right. Well. He’d best tell Ashton that he’s expected to pack up his entire life in the space of six fucking days, then. 

Calum sighs, stands up, yawns, winces at the movement and heads into the kitchen, where the crumpled-and-smoothed-out-again napkin with Luke and Ashton’s number on is still out on the counter from last night. He should probably write it down in his address book, he thinks, as he keys the numbers into the phone; he’s never been any good at memorising numbers. 

(With one major exception. But Michael’s always an exception where Calum’s concerned, so it doesn’t count.) 

“Cal?” Calum starts, so caught up in his thoughts that he’d not even noticed the phone ringing, let alone Ashton picking up.

“Uh, yeah,” Calum says. “Hi. You’re in.”

“Oh,” Ashton says, sounding a little surprised. “That was quick. I didn’t expect Liam to be up at eight in the morning.” 

“Uh,” Calum says. “Well. I just asked Noel. No one else’ll mind.” 

“Is that how it works?” Ashton says. “Noel runs the band?” 

“No,” Calum says hurriedly. “No. Absolutely not. And don’t fucking say that to him, because he likes to think he does.” 

“Right,” Ashton says, and Calum can hear the amusement in his tone. “Noel doesn’t run the band, but he’s the only one whose assent is needed for a new member to join. Got it.” 

“Fuck off,” Calum grumbles, and Ashton laughs. “Uh. Speaking of Noel, though. He wants you here by Sunday.” He braces himself for the _what? That’s fucking ridiculous, I can’t do that. You’ll have to find someone else_ that’s inevitably coming his way, but Ashton just hums nonchalantly.

“Alright,” he says easily. “What’s the plan for the work visa, then? I just come and sort it out once I’m there?” Calum blinks. He hadn’t really expected Ashton to be so ready to drop his life in Australia and fly over to the UK to join a random band, half of whom he’s yet to properly meet. Or to be so willing to break the law.

“I- well, that’s what Noel suggested, but-” 

“Sure,” Ashton says nonchalantly. “Sounds good.”

“So...you’ll get a tourist visa?” Calum says hesitantly. 

“I don’t need a visa to travel to the UK,” Ashton says. “I’m just not allowed to work.” 

“But you’ll be working.” 

“I mean, yeah, but that’ll get sorted, won’t it?” Ashton says. “I mean, some rich and famous strings are gonna get pulled, right?” Well. Probably, but Calum doesn’t like it. 

“That’s what Noel said,” Calum says, distaste clear in his tone. “Are you going to be able to pack your things up that quickly?” 

“Well, I don’t need much, do I? It’s a life on the road, isn’t it?” He has a point. “The only thing- well. It’s hard to find somewhere to stay at such short notice.” 

“You can stay with me,” Calum says immediately. “I only have one bedroom, but- y’know. Not like we haven’t shared a bed before.” 

“True,” Ashton agrees. “Cheers, Cal.” He pauses, and then exhales heavily, and a little shakily. “Fuck. I’m going to be in Oasis. Shit.”

“Yeah,” Calum agrees, huffing out a laugh that’s somewhere between amused, panicked, and bewildered. “Shit.” 

Yeah. _Shit._

\-------

The rest of the band, predictably, don’t have a problem with it. 

(Well. Liam bristles at first, especially at the fact he wasn’t consulted, but it only takes fifteen minutes in the rehearsal space with the session drummer for him to come around to the idea of quite literally anyone else on the entire planet replacing him.) 

Noel gets on the phone to Ashton the next day and then there are a lot more phone calls between Noel and Ashton, Ashton and Creation, Noel and Ashton and their management team, and one between Liam and Ashton just because Liam felt left out. Calum just sits back, lets it all unfold and just nods when Noel says _he seems sound, this Ashton bloke. He’s going to be here early on Sunday, so make sure you’re not hungover. Or if you are, make sure you’re at least hungover and awake._

Calum gets a phone call from Michael on Thursday evening, sat on his sofa with his fingers loosely wrapped around a half-empty bottle. 

“So,” he says, before Calum even has a chance to say hello. “What’s all this about?” 

“What?” 

“Recruiting Ashton into Oasis?” Michael says. “What is this, a ploy to turn everyone I know against me?” Calum’s stomach drops. He hadn’t even thought about that. But surely Michael knows that Ashton won’t let himself be dragged into that whole mess? 

“I- what? No, I- it’s not-” he starts hastily, but he’s cut off by Michael laughing. 

“Relax,” he says, smile audible in his tone. “I’m taking the piss. I know Ashton would have chosen to be in Blur if we’d had a spot available. The poor man’s just had to make do.” Calum scowls. 

“Fuck off,” he says. “He was positively _gagging_ to join Oasis.”

“You’d better negotiate a minimum notice period, because he’ll be gagging to _leave_ as soon as he has to spend an extended period of time with Noel and Liam,” Michael remarks. Calum automatically opens his mouth to fire back, and then closes it again when his brain processes what Michael’s said. He can’t really argue with that. 

“It’s not like he doesn’t know,” Calum says. “I warned him.”

“About the Gallaghers?”

“About all of it.” Michael hums. 

“Why’d you ask him to join?” he asks. Calum shrugs. 

“Noel told me to,” he says.

“And you do everything Noel tells you to?” There’s an odd tone to Michael’s voice, and Calum frowns. 

“Obviously not,” Calum says, “but he threatened to call Ashton himself if I didn’t. And, y’know. I don’t really want to re-alienate Luke and Ashton so soon.” Michael hums again, but he doesn’t sound convinced. “What, are you going to ask me if Noel told me to jump off a bridge, would I?” Calum asks, a touch sarcastically. “Who are you, my mum?” 

“Don’t say that,” Michael says, sounding like he’s wrinkled his nose up in disgust. “I don’t like men with an Oedipus complex.” 

“What?” Calum says, a little indignantly. He doesn’t want to fuck his _mum,_ for God’s sake. “I-” he stops. 

Oh. But he does want to fuck Michael. And if Michael were his mum-

He swallows. 

Right. 

“So when’s he coming?” Michael asks, as though nothing had happened, but Calum can hear the edges of a smirk lining his words. 

“Uh,” Calum says, trying to compose himself. “Tomorrow.”

 _“Tomorrow?”_ Michael repeats, shocked. “That’s- how the fuck- that’s- surely he hasn’t got a visa that quick?” There’s a beat, and then- 

“Well,” Calum says delicately, and Michael laughs delightedly. 

“Oh, this is fucking brilliant,” he says. “I can just turn you all in for- for, uh, illegal activity.” 

“Illegal activity?” Calum echoes. “As if we don’t do enough of that already.”

“Fucking- harbouring a fugitive?”

“A _fugitive?”_

“No, not a fugit- what the fuck is that crime called? When people work illegally?” 

“...Illegal working?”

“Yes!” Michael says, sounding relieved. “Yeah. I can turn you all in for that, and then Blur would win by default.”

“Win what?”

“Whatever fucking imaginary war the Gallaghers have decided we’re fighting,” Michael says. “Damon still thinks it’s fucking hilarious.” 

“Yeah, well,” Calum mutters, picking at the hem of his shirt. “He’s not the one that has to deal with the consequences of him pissing them off, is he?” 

“You don’t either, y’know,” Michael says. “We could make room for another bassist. I’m sure Damon would love to have you on board.” Calum huffs out a laugh. 

“I haven’t read Siddartha, though,” he says, and Michael groans. 

“Oh, fuck off,” he says. “I wish I’d never told you that.” 

“I should sell the story to the papers,” Calum says. “Imagine that. The great working-class Oasis made to look even more like the men of the people that we are by Damon Albarn’s pretentious literary snobbiness.” 

“Maybe we should do that,” Michael says thoughtfully. “You and I, I mean. We have the insider information. We could make a good bit of money taking this imaginary war to the media.” Calum snorts.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t really need the money, mate,” he says. 

“What was that you said about working-class?” Michael retorts, and Calum grins. 

“Fuck off,” he says, but it’s fond. 

“Really, though,” Michael says, in a tone that’s striving for jovial but unable to shake itself of its serious undertones. “You should join Blur.”

“You don’t need two bassists.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, Damon would probably like it,” Michael says breezily. “We can always kick Alex out, anyway.” Calum smiles, but it’s a little sad. It would be nice, really. It would be nice to be able to see Michael every day, to not have to worry about how he looks at him or hold back in speaking about him or sneak in phone calls whenever he can and only see him at awards ceremonies, but it wouldn’t be worth sabotaging his friendships with Noel and Liam. It would be nice, in another life, but Calum’s living this one, and he’s happy in Oasis. Fucked up as it is, chaotic and messy and drug-fuelled as it is, he doesn’t think he’d be as happy anywhere else. 

“I’m happy where I am,” he says gently, and a little apologetically, and maybe even a little regretfully. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, like he’d known that would be the answer all along, but is a little sad about it all the same. “Well. The offer stands, if you ever want to be in an environment that isn’t completely insane.” 

“I might get back to you after our recording session starts,” Calum says, and Michael laughs. 

“When’s that?” he says. 

“Next week. We’ve got six weeks to get the album done.” Michael hums.

“We’re almost done with ours,” he says. 

“About time,” Calum says. “You’ve been working on it since, what, January?”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “Damon’s a fucking _arse_ to work with when it comes to recording.”

“What was that about being in an environment that isn’t insane?” Michael laughs again. 

“Damon being an arse is probably better than Noel on a good day,” he says. 

“Noel’s fucking brilliant when you get to know him,” Calum says. “He’s just- he’s something. But if you give him a chance, he can be everything.” There’s a moment of silence. 

“You always speak so highly of him,” Michael says, and there’s something odd in his tone. Calum frowns. 

“No I don’t,” he says. “I call him a cunt most of the time. An insufferable cunt.” 

“But you never mean it,” Michael says. “There’s always something fond about it.” 

“Well, he’s one of my best friends, isn’t he?” Calum says. “I wouldn’t still be in this band if I really thought that.” He pauses. “Well, I do really mean it, but I also don’t. He’s an insufferable cunt, but he’s _my_ insufferable cunt, y’know?” he amends. 

_“Your_ insufferable cunt?” Michael says, sounding a little cool, and Calum’s stomach drops. 

Oh. Right. _That’s_ what he’s getting at. And it’s not the case, absolutely fucking not, but Michael doesn’t even know about Calum and Noel, and it’s going to sound worse if Calum tells him that now, but _much_ worse if he doesn’t and Michael finds out later. 

Fuck. Mali was right; he’s got to start being honest with people. And who better to start with than Michael? 

“I- uh.” Calum swallows. “Look. There’s nothing going on between me and Noel, okay? Nothing. But-”

 _“But?”_ Michael says sharply.

“-but we, uh. We did. Um. We did fuck. Like, three years ago. Once. Never again. And nothing else. Like, no dating, romance, none of that. Just- just one night.” 

Michael doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment, and then he exhales. 

“You fucked Noel,” he says dully. Calum’s heart flips in his chest. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Three years ago.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” 

“I- I didn’t want to fuck things up. I didn’t want- y’know. Things were so fragile. And there wasn’t really a good moment to bring it up.” 

“There were plenty of good moments,” Michael says coolly. “How about every time Noel came up in conversation? Or when we both talked about how we’d fucked people since- y’know?” Calum winces. 

“Okay, yeah,” he admits. “Yeah, I suppose I could’ve. It just- things were so _fragile._ I didn’t want to fuck it up.” 

“You didn’t think keeping the fact you’ve fucked one of your band members from me would fuck things up?” Well, yes, but Calum doesn’t tend to think that far in advance. Out of sight, out of mind, really. If he doesn’t think about it, it’s not a problem. 

“I- well, yeah, I guess, but-”

“Jesus, Calum. You fucked Noel?” Calum grimaces. 

“Yeah.” 

“Fucking hell,” Michael says. “And you want me to believe that _nothing’s_ happened since? You live in close confines, you’re high as fuck almost every day, and you expect me to believe that you’ve never exchanged so much as a drunken peck on the lips since?” 

“We haven’t,” Calum says. “We- it’s- it’s complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.” Michael’s tone is even, but it sounds like the prelude to danger, like he’s laid out a minefield for Calum to tread and one wrong move will cause the whole thing to detonate. 

“I, uh. I- neither of us wanted to lose Liam, I guess.” There’s a pause. 

“So the only reason you didn’t keep doing- whatever it was you were doing with Noel was because of Liam?” Michael’s tone sounds a little sharper now, the undertone of danger weaving around every word, and Calum swallows. 

“No,” he says. “Well. Maybe? I don’t know. But I’ve never, like, fucking, yearned for him, or anything. It’s never been hard for me not to- not to- y’know. There’s nothing between us, and I don’t want there to be, and I never have. Liam was just the catalyst for that, I think.” He takes a deep breath, and then adds: “Because, uh. Liam doesn’t know.” 

“Liam doesn’t know?” Michael echoes. _“Liam doesn’t-_ Jesus, Calum. Jesus. You fuck your best friend’s brother, and you lie to him about it for years?” 

“I haven’t _lied_ about it-”

“Lying by omission is still lying.” 

“Well, I-”

“What the fuck happened to you?” Michael says, and he sounds a little disgusted. “When did you become such a fucking coward?” Calum’s stomach lurches. 

“It’d fuck everything up,” he says. “There’s no point telling him. It was a one time thing, and it was three years ago, and nothing’s _ever_ happened since.”

“There’s no point?” Michael repeats. “You _fucked his brother._ You’re his _best friend._ You’re _all bandmates.”_

“You know what Liam’s like with overreacting,” Calum says, and there’s a slightly pleading, desperate edge to his voice, because it feels like he might have a foot on one of the mines, and he knows the only way out is to take his foot off and let it all blow up, or to defuse it. “You saw him when I first said hi to you. He would blow it out of proportion, kick off about it, ruin his relationships with both of us, ruin the band, and-”

“Jesus, alright, I get it,” Michael says, but it’s a little calmer now, a little less contemptuous. “Liam’s a fucking drama queen.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “So there’s no _point,_ y’know? Noel’s never told him either.” 

“It’s still fucked up,” Michael says, matter-of-fact. 

“Yeah,” Calum says again, because it is, and he knows it. But really, what good would it do to be honest? It’s not like it’s a huge burden of guilt on him. Sometimes the old adage of what they don’t know can’t hurt them rings true. “But nothing’s ever happened since. Nothing’s ever even come _close_ to happening since. It’s- everything’s strictly platonic.” 

“Promise?” 

“I promise.” 

“Okay,” Michael says, like he’s trying to convince himself it is. “Okay. Well. I think I should probably go.” Calum’s heart sinks. 

“You don’t have to,” he tries. 

“I think I should,” Michael repeats, but it’s a little softer. “I- look, I just need some time to think about it, okay?” 

“Okay,” Calum says. “I- yeah. Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Michael says. “You should be. But you told me now, at least.” 

“Yeah,” Calum says, even though it doesn’t feel like that counts for much. 

“Have fun in the studio,” Michael says. “And say hi to Ashton for me.” 

“I will,” Calum says. “Bye, Michael.”

“Bye, Cal.” There’s a click, and then he’s gone. 

Fuck, Calum thinks, bringing the bottle to his lips with slightly shaky hands. 

(Sometimes the fact that alcohol is the biggest food group in Calum’s diet doesn't seem like such a bad thing after all.) 

\-------

Ashton arrives on Sunday, jet-lagged and exhausted. He barely manages a _hey, mate_ before he’s asking _where’s the living room? D’you mind if I nap for a bit?_

(“At least sleep on the fucking bed,” Calum says, waving his hand in the direction of his bedroom, and Ashton grins at him tiredly before heading straight for it.) 

He gets up when Calum’s making dinner (i.e., boiling some pasta and adding a store-bought sauce) and stumbles into the kitchen sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, and then pulls a face at the raspiness of his tone and clears his throat. Calum just snorts, stirring the pasta, and throws him a smile. 

“Hi,” he says. “Sleep well?” Ashton sighs, nodding as he cracks his neck. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a comfy bed.”

“It is,” Calum agrees. “That’s why I bought it.” Ashton grins, yawns and stretches, and then nods at the pot Calum’s stirring. 

“What’s that?” he asks. 

“Pasta,” Calum says, a little apologetically. “I’m, uh. Not really the best cook.” It’s not really surprising, actually - he’s been on the road for a good few years, now, almost all of his adult life to date; he’s not had much of a chance to learn. And he’s still young, still able to get away with eating approximately one vegetable a year, and he’s going to take full advantage of that while he still can. 

“You should’ve told me,” Ashton says. “I would’ve cooked.”

“Nah,” Calum says. “You were sleeping.” As if on cue, Ashton stifles a yawn, and Calum throws him an amused smile, making Ashton roll his eyes, grinning back. 

“D’you mind if I call Luke?” he asks. “I just want to let him know I got here safely.”

“Sure,” Calum says. “There’s a phone in the living room on the mantelpiece.” 

“Cheers,” Ashton says, and hesitates for just a moment, like he wants to add something else, before smiling again and heading out of the room. 

He comes back in just as Calum’s scraping the last of the pasta into one of the two bowls he’d scrounged up, muttering a prayer under his breath that it doesn’t overflow because he always overestimates how much pasta fits in a bowl. 

“Luke says hi,” Ashton says, hovering near the doorway, like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to sit down or not. 

“Did you tell him hi back from me?” Calum asks, turning the hob off and taking both bowls in hand. 

“No,” Ashton says, eyes following Calum as he heads to the table and sets both bowls down. “That would have been presumptuous. What if you didn’t want to say hi?” Calum looks up and throws him a glare, which Ashton returns with an innocent smile. 

“First I steal his boyfriend away, and now you’re not even responding to his greetings on my behalf?” Calum says, tutting dramatically as he heads back over to the cutlery drawer and yanks out two spoons. “Fuck Noel coming between us, _you’re_ the one I should’ve worried about.” Ashton laughs, accepting the spoon Calum holds out to him and scraping back the chair on the opposite side of the table to where Calum’s scooting in. 

“If there’s no drama in your life, you have to create it,” he says solemnly, eyes twinkling, and Calum snorts. 

“There’ll be plenty of fucking drama in your life soon,” he says, and wolfs down a mouthful of pasta. It’s a little overcooked, and the sauce is piping hot, but it’s sustenance, and that’s what counts, right? 

“I suppose,” Ashton allows, taking a much more delicate mouthful. “Although Noel’s seemed pretty reasonable every time I’ve spoken to him so far.” 

“Has he?” Calum asks suspiciously. 

“I mean, I got a grilling about you and Michael, but besides that-” Calum’s stomach drops. 

“You what?” 

“He asked me loads of questions about you and Michael.” Calum swallows. 

“What sorts of questions?” Ashton shrugs, too nonchalantly, chewing on another mouthful. 

“Just stuff about the two of you back in the day,” he says. He swallows, and then looks up at Calum, a little too discerningly for Calum’s liking. 

“What did you say?” Calum asks, before he can stop himself, and then has to put all his energy into stopping the ensuing wince in its tracks. 

“Kept it vague,” Ashton says. “He was asking very specific questions.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like, I don’t know, how long you two were still in contact after you moved to the UK, whether I thought the two of you would ever patch things up, how serious your relationship was, stuff like that.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, mind and heart racing. “Well. He’s probably just worried about- about the whole Blur versus Oasis thing still. He’s not exactly a trusting man.” Ashton hesitates, and then clears his throat and sits back in his chair. 

“Look,” he says delicately. “It’s not my business, so feel free to tell me to fuck off. But have you and Noel- are you-” Calum inhales sharply, and Ashton falters. “I- fuck, sorry. I shouldn’t have- sorry. Forget I said anything.” Calum scrunches his face up, and then sighs. 

“No,” he says. “No, I- fuck. I just-” he breaks off, and inhales deeply. Fucking hell. He wasn’t expecting to have this conversation twice in one day. But Ashton should know, really, shouldn’t he, if he’s going to join the band? 

_(Is it fair to tell Ashton before Liam?_ a little voice in his mind that Calum refuses to identify as his conscience asks. Calum’s glad he’s well-practiced at ignoring his principles. So good, in fact, that he doesn't even know what they are anymore.) 

“Okay,” he says carefully. “I- we’re not. We’re not anything. But- we did, uh, fuck. Once. Three years ago. Nothing since, I swear. There’s nothing between us now.” Ashton stares at him for a moment, expression unreadable, and then blinks. 

“Are you sure?”

“Am I- what? Am I sure about what?”

“That there’s nothing between you now.” Calum frowns. 

“Yeah?” He’s not really understanding the question. 

“I- okay.” Calum’s frown deepens.

“What?” Ashton bites his lip. “C’mon, Ashton.” 

“I- alright. I just- I think Noel…” he trails off. 

“You think Noel what?”

“I think Noel might not be on the same page as you there.” Calum blinks. 

“You think- you think Noel…?” he asks, and can’t help the burst of surprised laughter that escapes him. “No. No, definitely not. The guy shags about fifteen people a week. He- no. It’s been three years. He definitely- that’s- no. Definitely not.” 

“Well, why else was he so concerned about you and Michael?” Ashton asks, stabbing at his pasta with his spoon. “He wouldn’t let me steer the conversation anywhere else.” 

“Probably just the whole Blur-Oasis thing, like I said,” Calum says, and Ashton shakes his head. 

“I don’t think so,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“Because he asked whether I’d be in contact with Michael, and I said I probably would be,” Ashton says. “And he wasn’t that bothered. He just wanted to know about you.” Calum blinks. Oh. Okay. Now that- that is a bit odd. Especially given that Noel was the one to overreact when Calum had wanted to speak to Luke and Ashton at the NME awards, not Liam. Then again, Calum thinks, in Noel’s strange mind, Ashton’s probably okay now, because he’s chosen Oasis over Blur by joining the band, regardless of whatever contact he has with any members of Blur. But so has Calum, and any mention of Blur still has Noel spitting venom and dragging Michael into it, forcing Calum to defend himself, and Calum can’t even imagine the potential reaction were he to admit that he’s in contact with Michael. 

So if he doesn’t care about Ashton being involved with Blur, why does he care so much that _Calum_ might be involved with Blur? 

It doesn’t make sense, though. It’s been three years. _Three years._ And their entire lives are built around this band, now, around the relationship between himself, Noel and Liam, and Noel must know that anything between Noel and Calum will sever both of their ties with Liam, so there wouldn’t be any point. Besides, there’s no way Noel’s been harbouring lingering feelings for Calum for all that time. In fact, it would be a surprise to find out Noel has feelings at all, let alone feelings for Calum. No, Calum thinks, a little more resolutely. Ashton doesn’t know Noel like Calum does. He’s an oddball, someone that takes a lot of getting used to, and Ashton’s yet to go through that process. He’s probably just misunderstanding, or misinterpreting, or misreading somehow. He’s definitely misjudged the situation. 

“He’ll have his reasons,” Calum says. “Nothing that goes through that man’s head makes the remotest bit of sense to anyone who isn’t Liam, and vice versa. I’m sure he’s got an explanation for it, and I’m even more sure that that explanation involves the words _fuck, Blur,_ and _cunts.”_ Ashton hesitates, and then smiles, but it’s tight and a little unsure. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right. I barely know the guy.” 

“Yeah,” Calum agrees. “Sometimes I feel like I barely know the guy, too. He’s a fucking enigma.” Ashton laughs, and lifts another spoonful of pasta to his mouth. 

“What about Bonehead?” he says, and Calum relaxes a little, untensing muscles he hadn’t even realised he’d tensed. “What’s he like?” 

“Bonehead?” Calum echoes. “He’s a bit of Liam, really. Fucking twat, but far less loveable. The two of them together are trouble, so steer clear any night they’re rooming together.” 

“I do like Liam,” Ashton admits, pushing his pasta around in his bowl. “He’s such a cunt, but I can’t help it.” Calum huffs out a laugh. 

“No one can,” he says. “It’s how he gets away with everything.” 

“Is he really that bad?”

“He’s worse,” Calum tells him, and Ashton grins. 

“Luke made me promise to stir up some scandal so he can see pictures of me in a magazine,” he says, and Calum laughs. 

“Well, getting arrested and deported is pretty par for the course for Oasis, so I hope he likes seeing you in handcuffs,” he says, and then, when Ashton doesn’t respond for a moment, pulls a face. “Oh, Jesus Christ. No. _No._ I could’ve fucking done without that mental image.” Ashton bursts out laughing, and lets his spoon clatter into the empty bowl in front of him. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, eyes twinkling. 

“I- wait, hang on, really? Luke tops?” Calum pauses. “Wait, no. No. Don’t answer that.” 

“On occasion.” 

_“No,”_ Calum says loudly, almost drowning out Ashton’s giggles. “I don’t want to think about that.” 

“So don’t,” Ashton suggests cheekily, getting to his feet and picking up both his and Calum’s empty bowls, carrying them over to the sink. 

“Don’t,” Calum says, scrambling to his feet too and jogging over to the sink, where Ashton’s just turned on the tap. “I’ll do it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Ashton says. “You cooked.”

“Cooked?” Calum says sceptically, reaching for the bowls and spoons in the sink, and Ashton huffs out a laugh, standing aside to let him. 

“Well, it’s a step up from what Luke’s capable of,” he says, and Calum wrinkles his nose. From what he recalls, eating raw chicken is a step up from what Luke’s capable of. In fact-

“Didn’t he once put raw chicken in a salad and give you salmonella?” he asks, and Ashton groans. 

“Don’t,” he says. “I went vegetarian for three years after that.” 

“I remember having to take you to hospital when you were completely out of it,” Calum says, rinsing the suds off one of the bowls and putting it in the drying rack. “It took me ages to convince the doctors you weren’t just drunk because you kept slurring and saying absolute shit.” 

“Wasn’t that when I accidentally told Luke I loved him?” Calum grins. 

“And he thought you were being sarcastic because he’d just poisoned you.”

“Took me another three years after that to work up the courage to say it properly.” 

“I’m glad the two of you sorted everything out,” Calum says, putting the last spoon on the drying rack and shaking his hands off in the sink. 

“Yeah,” Ashton says, and it sounds a little soft. “Michael told me about all the stupid plans you two concocted to try and get us together back when you lived in Sydney.” 

“They were brilliant,” Calum insists, reaching for a tea towel and drying his hands. “If Liam and Noel end up killing each other, I’m going into a career in matchmaking.” He’s expecting a quick comeback from Ashton, or at the very least a laugh, so when he’s met with silence he glances up and over at Ashton. “What?” he asks, and Ashton shakes his head, like he’s shaking himself out of some kind of train of thought. 

“What? Nothing,” he says, too quickly, and Calum frowns. 

“What is it?” 

“Nothing,” Ashton says. “It’s nothing. I’m fucking thirsty, have you got any beers in?” Calum hesitates for a moment, still frowning, before nodding over at the fridge. 

“I’m fucking Australian,” he says, slotting the tea towel back into its place on the oven handle. “Have I got any fucking beers in, Christ.” Ashton grins, reaching for the fridge handle. 

“Well, I don’t know,” he says, faux-innocent. “You could pass for English now.” Calum’s head whips around, and he scowls. 

“Fucking take that back,” he says, and Ashton just grins, not looking at Calum as he reaches into the fridge for a beer. “You fucking take that back, Ashton.” 

“What?” Ashton says, still innocent, raising his eyebrows at Calum as he closes the fridge. “Liam told me he drinks you under the table.”

“Both his parents are fucking _Irish,”_ Calum says. 

“And?” 

“Alright,” Calum says, as Ashton pulls the cap of the bottle off. “If you can beat Liam in a drinking competition, I’ll give you it.” Ashton raises an eyebrow. 

“And if he beats me?” 

“Then nothing,” Calum says. “Liam will taunt you enough. I won’t need to do anything else.” Ashton laughs, and holds his beer up. 

“I’ll cheers to that,” he says, and takes a long swig. Calum just rolls his eyes, and reaches for a cloth to wipe the mess he’d managed to make on the hob and up the wall, trying not to smile. 

Yeah, he thinks, as he’s scrubbing at the sauce stains. It’ll be nice to have Ashton in the band. It’ll be good to have someone around who can counter Noel and Liam’s insanity, and even better to have someone else who talks to Michael, and to whom he can talk about Michael. 

_(Why the fuck does Noel care about_ you _talking to Michael, but not Ashton?_ that little voice in his head wonders again, but when Ashton hands him a bottle of beer too and starts talking about the plans for recording the album, Calum finds he can at the very least ignore it, even if he can't ignore the strange, unsettled churning of his stomach that he doesn't understand.) 


End file.
